The Olive Affair
by Boston Manor
Summary: COMPLETE! My first story proper. It's 1882, and the scene is set for a welcome reunion - and a case which carries with it considerable danger. Rated K plus just in case. Please R&R.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer – ACD owns the characters of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson of course. Although this story mentions real people, the events are fictional. I have used accurate locations wherever possible.

**Prologue**

14th October 1882

The doctor walked quickly across the Common, along the muddy gravel track he knew so well. He had made this journey – for any number of different medical reasons – dozens of times. It was one of the drawbacks of his job, he knew, being out in all weathers and at all hours of the day or night, but he was pleased nonetheless. The birth had been complicated and at one point the mother had been despaired of; but thanks to him, the world was now graced with one additional hearty pair of lungs and an extra mouth to feed.

The track was wet underfoot after the recent rain. Clouds raced across the night sky, so that within a short space of time he could be either walking in clear moonlight or in dark gloom. Nonetheless the sea air was bracing. High tide had been about an hour ago, and in the wind he could hear, over the slow crashing of waves on the shingle beach, the creaking of the masts from ships moored a little way offshore. The storm of the previous day had blown itself out, and all was fresh and clean in the late autumn air.

He passed the old ruined windmill – half way home. He was looking forward to his warm fire – even though due to his financial situation he wasn't able to stoke it very high. He wasn't bitter – even though his partner had left him saddled with debt when he had pulled out of the deal to set up the present surgery. The doctor stopped for a moment, looking out over the grassland towards the sea; wondering what it was like at that moment in Plymouth, where he had started practising only a couple of years previously, and where his former employer still worked. Still, it had been a good move – he now had his own practice, rather than one shared with a not entirely trustworthy associate – and, more importantly, a steady stream of patients, most of whom were able to pay their bills in a timely fashion. The debt collectors were not at his door yet! Perhaps Doctor Budd had unwittingly done him a favour after all. It had been hard to come to terms with being sacked – and over such a trivial disagreement. But there was no way that he wanted his name linked with one who was so obviously descending into reckless madness.

Trudge, trudge. Even though he knew the track ran level across the Common, tonight it felt as though it was a steep uphill trek. The Common was slowly becoming less totally desolate – it had been cleared of vegetation for the past hundred or so years, in order to give the town's guns a clear line of fire in the event of attack. But now, in more peaceable times, and with new technology available to the generals and admirals which increased their ability to kill and maim at a civilised distance, it was being allowed to grow over again, and in places avenues of trees had been planted. The town was expanding beyond the garrison walls, and what was being built was most fashionable – although, perhaps, a little exposed. With a smile he recorded that, already, the trees were bent over by the almost constant wind, leaning somewhat drunkenly to the north-east. In the daylight hours it was becoming quite the 'place to be', a veritable pleasure ground; beaux and belles alike walking together, probably not noticing the stunning scenery – or the constant building work under way along the northern edge of the Common. Slowly but surely its edges were being nibbled away – he felt certain that, give a few years, there would be little of it left, and what was left would be unrecognisable.

But at night it took on another character. Only a few days beforehand, a traveller had been accosted and robbed at gunpoint close to where he was now walking. The police were still having a hard time dealing with the last of the footpads who had treated the place as a safe haven for so many years previously. Then again, he thought with a rueful smile, the police were having a hard time dealing with anything, full stop. The only thing they had succeeded in doing recently was removing the old gibbet down on the beach – because it did not give the right impression to the numbers of visitors now arriving daily to sample the town's delights.

The lights of the first houses of his part of the town drew close by, and shortly the track became hard underfoot as the mud gave way to cobbles and the ordered avenues of the town. The cry of an owl echoed around the houses now lining the street, whose grand fronts were illuminated by the new gas street lights, and light shone dimly through some of their windows. The doctor turned one last corner and before him was his own house – number ten, Hampshire Terrace, Southsea.

Well, not his own house, of course – he only took rooms. He was young and single, but lived simply. He paid his weekly rent, always on time, to the kindly owner, an ancient lady of some reputation as a shrewd but fair businesswoman. She was presently away on holiday with relatives in Bournemouth, another seaside town growing rapidly in popularity for 'taking the waters'. He sometimes had to go without, but a doctor could not be without a surgery.

He cleared the three steps to the front door in a single bound, and a few moments later was standing in the relative warmth and security of the porch. He turned the key in the lock, and then he stood gratefully in the hallway, closing the door behind him against the raw elements. The house was dark, but he knew where to reach on the wall in order to turn the small wheel to increase the flow of gas to the light.

Four o'clock in the morning. He replaced his pocket watch into his waistcoat, and walked through the hall and into the kitchen. Turning the gas light on in that room, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror_. What a mess! More washing!_ he thought with a groan. The birth had been long and had required much effort – both on his part and of the mother. _However_, he thought_, all's well that ends well_.

A drink? Perhaps not, of alcohol. Tea, perhaps. The drawback to being a single practitioner was that you were always on call. For all he knew, he might not even sit down before being summoned again by an urgent knock at the door. His reputation had gone before him, and whilst others in the profession were still somewhat loathe to be disturbed during the silent hours, not so with him. After all, if one is to be a doctor, one cannot require illnesses to only exhibit themselves in convenient hours! And, of course, a good reputation paid the bills.

He poured water into his kettle and hung it over the fire. As the water started to heat up, a knock at the door sounded through the house. He quickly removed the kettle from the heat, and made his way to the door. Opening it he cast a glance out into the street and saw nothing. _Who could be playing such pranks at this time of the morning?_ he thought angrily.

He was ready to close the door when a quiet groan attracted his attention. It was coming from the foot of the stairs leading to the door, and as he looked he saw in the dim light the figure of a person, lying on the pavement. He leapt down the step and knelt at the poor wretch's side.

It was a woman, probably in her mid twenties. She was clearly under some intoxicating influence, but was for her part well dressed and, he rapidly surmised, of no little breeding and wealth. Seeing that she had fallen down the steps, he carefully helped her to her feet, and gingerly assisted her back up the three steps and into the hall.

"Can you speak?" he asked. In reply, the woman looked pleadingly into his face. Her voice was indeed of one well educated, but its news brought coldness to his heart.

"My husband. Francis. They – they've taken him."

"Who are 'they'?" he asked in reply.

"The order. The order…"

He noticed blood was coming to her lips. He laid her on the chaise in the hallway and turned the light up to its full extent. A growing pool of crimson on the floor surrounded the woman. He fell to his knees beside her, steadying her as she slumped from the chaise onto the floor, revealing in her side a gunshot wound. His hands, he realised, were covered in blood from where he had assisted her.

"Please …." She fought for breath, and held onto the lapels of his jacket as she struggled to speak. "You must stop them. You must stop them finding …."

"I will attend to you. I will be gone only a moment, to get my bag," he assured her, and left her side and ran into the kitchen where his medical bag was still on the table. He returned to the woman – but it was too late. She had expired.

He sat next to her in silence for a few moments. 'Order'. Whose order? Or did it mean some group or company? His musings did not continue for long, as there was another knocking at the door. Slowly he rose to his feet, tidied himself and opened the door. Two policemen stood there.

"Good evening, Doctor," said the first, "I believe you may have a young lady with you? The trail of blood leads to your door."

"Yes, officers," he replied. "She knocked my door not five minutes hence. Please, come in. I fear some evil has been committed locally tonight. She talked of her husband being taken."

He ushered the two policemen into the hallway where the body of the young woman was lying on the floor.

"Cause of death, sir?" asked the second officer, getting out his notebook.

"She has been shot. Once, in the chest. At least one of her lungs has been punctured by the bullet, and it is my opinion that she bled to death."

The policemen looked at each other, and then the first continued, "Do you know this woman, doctor?"

"No, I have but recently returned from a birth over towards Eastney. I had only just put the kettle onto the hearth for a drink when the door was knocked, and I found her here. Her husband is called Francis, and ...."

This answer seemed to please the officers, who interrupted, "Thank you, sir, I think we'll take it from here. We will arrange for the removal of the body immediately."

"Well, actually, I don't think that will be possible. I have to issue a death certificate. You will of course have to make enquiries as to her identity, but the medical process must be completed first."

"I'm sorry, sir," replied the second policeman. "I don't think you understand. We will take the body. Now."

At this the doctor found himself staring down the barrel of a revolver. As he started to protest, he heard the arrival of a horse-drawn wagon or cab. "Into the kitchen, please, sir," said the first officer, with a hint of menace in his voice. "We don't want any more deaths tonight, do we? And not a word of this to anyone – otherwise we cannot answer for your future safety."

With that the doctor was frog-marched into the kitchen. The door was closed behind him and he heard a chair – probably the chaise – being placed against it to hold it shut. The sound of the front door opening, muffled voices, and then shutting again. Silence.

He pushed his way out of the kitchen and ran to the front door. He opened it and saw the cab – for cab it was – racing away. He leapt down the steps and stood in the middle of the road, his head full of anger and bitterness at the audacity and injustice of what had just happened. Surely the two who had visited him and taken the body of the unknown woman were no more policemen than he was.

After a few moments he decided his course of action. The real police would have to be involved, in spite of the threat to his life – and in spite of his low opinion of them.

The Police Station was a few roads away, near the former eastern gateway to the town. He made the journey at a full run, and arrived, breathless, after some five minutes. He struck a number of heavy blows on the door before the resident officer answered the door, and took no time in explaining the situation. To his dismay, it seemed that the young policeman had little interest; either that, or was out of his depth. His face was a picture of disinterest, and what notes he took were incomplete and would be of little use. The possibility of a kidnapping, on top of the murder, passed him by, and he barely took note as the doctor told him of the woman's desperate pleas.

"The cab!" the doctor exclaimed. "What about the cab? With the body ..." His already low opinion of the local constabulary was sinking without trace. He realised that the body was the only evidence for the strange visitation that he had received. He knew what he must do. Taking his urgent leave of the policeman, he sprinted through the gas-lit streets, praying to see the cab ahead of him.

But it was to no avail. His running slowed to a brisk walk, as the shock and gravity of what he had experienced started to dawn on him. He felt sick. And then – he saw the cab. Ahead, under the railway bridge upon which was located the town's railway station.

With a start he realised that it was five o'clock, and the first train for London was at the platform and due to leave. Perhaps he would be in time ....

And then he saw them. With the aid of a porter, the two men he had seen earlier were just finished loading two large trunks into the goods carriage and, dressed now in civilian clothes, were boarding the train at the platform. He cried out, but he was too far away and with the noise of the stream engine they did not hear him. He broke anew into a run, but the train was already pulling away as he reached the bridge. With a feeling of total despair he watched as the train pulled out of the station and disappeared into the early morning autumnal gloom.

_If only...._ It was always thus. 'If only' the young policeman had not been so slow in taking the details. 'If only' he hadn't opened the door to the two visitors earlier.

'If only' there was someone he could trust to do a proper job of investigating what had happened. He held no hope of any justice – or even help - from the local Force. With so many Service personnel about, civilian matters came low down their list of priorities.

And with a thrill he knew what he must do. He ran to the post office, which was just opening its doors to receive the first load of packets just delivered from the recently departed train. He quickly dictated a telegram, paid the clerk and watched as it was despatched.

JOHN STOP DESPERATE NEED OF YOUR HELP STOP KIDNAP AND MURDER STOP ARRIVING ELEVEN THIS MORNING WATERLOO BRIDGE STOP ARTHUR

Doctor Arthur Conan Doyle allowed himself his first smile since the awful events of that morning had taken place. It would be good to see John Watson again.


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: all fictional characters belong to ACD. Where reference is made to places (apart from 221B of course) and events in this chapter, the geographical and historical information is factual.

**Chapter 1**

"Well, Holmes?" I asked of my friend.

"Hmm?"

"Holmes! I was talking to you! What are you doing?"

Holmes looked up at me, and took the pipe from his mouth. "My apologies, Watson, my mind was otherwise engaged. I was considering how to reply to this correspondent who has graced me with their considered criticism of my work of last year – 'Book of Life'. You remember it, I am sure. I recall you commented that it was 'twaddle'. You could not see how the existence of Niagara or the Ocean could be deduced from a drop of water. Well, this ignoramus thinks similarly."

"You know full well I was unaware of who was behind it, Holmes!" I laughed in reply. "I would never have commented thus should I have been aware of its illustrious author."

Holmes, in his turn, laughed. "Ha! Did I really fill you with such trepidation, Watson? In any event, no harm was done. As I said, my apologies. I think, with your help, I have decided the proper response."

He screwed up the letter and threw it with perfect aim into the fire, stoked high to ward off the approaching autumn chills. He puffed on his pipe again, and then continued, "So, you are wondering whether to renew your acquaintance with Doctor Conan Doyle, who requires your aid urgently."

I was a little upset at this. "You have read the telegram, then."

"No, but after one year you should be able to propose my line of reasoning."

Holmes had explained his methods – or, more accurately, tried to – on a number of occasions, but I still considered them a black art, and with a laugh told him so.

Holmes sighed. "If our relationship is to remain cordial you might at least attempt to follow my reasoning. It is quite straight-forward." He put on his 'very patient' expression, sitting with his eyes meeting mine steadily. "I can see from your expression you are deep in some inner discussion over the matter. The telegram bore a Portsmouth mark, and was delivered by special courier. Only the most urgent messages are delivered thus. You yourself have mentioned on more than one occasion your passing acquaintance with the good Doctor. A case of 'physician, heal thyself', was it not – a second opinion regarding your rehabilitation last year? You made a few journeys to see him over the first few months of our lodging – although I admit to wondering how you afforded it, Plymouth being a tidy distance. I have always assumed he paid for the trips, though I have been mindful of causing embarrassment to you to make such an assertion to your face. You told me earlier this year he had moved from Plymouth to Portsmouth – following an altercation with his employer if I recall. And, of course, you rarely receive communications – regretfully, the truth is that the vast majority are addressed to me, and seek my assistance. It really is quite simple. The look of sadness which passed over your face said it all - your circle of friends, I am afraid, is not large. A product of service to Queen and Country I fear."

"Yes, you are correct," I smiled. "He asks for help, Holmes. It isn't clear what has befallen him, but the tone of the message implies desperation." I read the telegram aloud. "He arrives on the eleven o'clock train at Waterloo Bridge Station, Holmes. And he asks for my help."

Holmes hid his interest at the words 'kidnap and murder' well, and instead managed a show of being affronted by my friend's request, as if it were some calculated insult not to mention him. Quickly, I added, "He only asks the favour of me, because of you."

Holmes gave up the pretence of disinterest and sat up in his chair. "Me? And to what do I owe this?"

"Come, Holmes. Don't think that I keep news of your exploits to myself. I have no doubt that he enlists my help only to obtain the benefit of yours. He is quite unnerved by an episode, and requests – needs - illumination." I paused for a moment – for dramatic effect. "And who better than you to provide it?"

My last remark obviously found favour with Holmes, as was its intention of course. "It's still early days, Watson, in my chosen calling," he mused. "It is amusing to see Lestrade and Gregson fighting over my talents like children with a new toy. I feel great things lie ahead, but … yes, this could be most interesting. Kidnap and murder indeed! You may advise Mrs Hudson that we will in all probability be away from Baker Street for a few days, Watson, and whilst you do so, please order us a cab for ten-thirty; and once you have done that, I would be grateful if you would take a brief stroll to the Gardens and back. An hour will suffice."

"Away, Holmes? But he is coming to London."

"But to understand the events fully, I have no doubt that we will have need to travel to Portsmouth."

"Very well," I replied, and then added in query, "An hour, Holmes ….?"

"Yes. I have a two-pipe problem to resolve in the meantime. I need to think."

* * *

When I returned from my enforced exercise I found Holmes lying on the floor, poring over newspapers from the past couple of days. The air was thick with acrid smoke – that particular variety which usually accompanied his most detailed concentration.

"All is well, Watson," he said as I settled myself down. "The matter of the stolen emerald has been resolved. In that it was never stolen in the first place. The culprit was, you see, the father."

"Ah…" I said, trying to piece together the information I was receiving. It made no sense. Holmes saw the look on my face, and stopped.

"If you open your mouth any wider, Watson, I will expect your jaw to dislocate."

"I'm sorry, it's just that … should I know about this emerald, then?"

He stopped. A quizzical look crossed his face, and then he burst into laughter. "A thousand apologies, my good fellow!" he shouted, and clapped his hands. "Please … ha! The penalty for not keeping track of one's mental perambulations! You have not been aware of the case on which I have been working. It is solved. I have these last few minutes sent word to our constabulary friends by telegram of where and why the culprit may be apprehended."

I was relieved that I had not been missing something so obvious. I forced myself to straighten up and, importantly, close my mouth which had obviously been such a source of amusement to Holmes as I had pondered what he had been saying.

"I am glad to hear it. But – Holmes – it is ten o'clock, we will be needing to meet Arthur at the station! And if you think that a visit to Portsmouth is definitely required, then we need to pack!"

"I am already done, Watson," he replied with a smile, pointing to a small valise on the table.

It had been a little while since I had seen Arthur. "I feel quite ready for a seaside visit, Holmes – even in dubious circumstances. The London air can be noisome sometimes."

"Hmm. Not as noisome as our likely company on the journey. You had better organise First Class tickets, my friend. Whilst I am grateful for their role in defending the Empire, I do not relish the prospect of two hours in the company of matelots."

I started to pack a small bag with my immediate requirements. Service life had taught me to be ready for anything, at a moment's notice, and not to be caught by surprise – yet it sometimes amazed me that accounts which on the surface seemed similar could result in completely different reactions from my friend.

"Tell me, Holmes, why this case?" I called from my room. "Is it because of Doctor Conan Doyle's standing as my friend? You have received similar messages before and have taken no interest in them."

"Nothing so complicated as that!" exclaimed Holmes, standing in the doorway watching me pack. He did not offer to assist. "No, as I said, it is the lack of demeanour in the man's writing that fascinates me. Let me put it this way. You and he are both medical men. From what I have seen, your type – if I may refer to you as such – do not scare easily. You have been through much, and seen much. For him to write so stridently and with such urgency must mean he is in some terror of the thing that has befallen him."

"I would support any testimony he gives. He is completely trustworthy."

"Indeed," mused Holmes, "He uses a most welcome minimum of verbiage to convey his message." He held the telegram in his hand, re-reading the contents. "I would imagine that, for a doctor, he writes quite clearly. Unlike someone I could mention." He smiled at me.

"I am often in a hurry as I prescribe, you know that," I laughed, pausing in my packing.

"That's not what I am referring to."

"Oh..?"

"I have seen them – the journal entries you are keeping."

I admit I was taken aback at the revelation that Holmes was aware of my activity. "I'm sorry; it's a habit I got into during my military posting. It is useful to record one's thoughts and sensations, so that recollecting them later, for an inquiry perhaps, can be made easier."

"To what end are you making these journals now, then?"

I thought for a moment, and decided honesty was the best policy. "I thought perhaps, that I could record some of your methods."

Holmes was clearly surprised. "Why on earth would you want to do that?"

"Holmes, even if you do not see it yourself – and I find that hard to believe, you seem well aware of the esteem you are held in by those whom you graciously assist with their trifles – others could learn much from a study of your techniques. And you yourself said but a few minutes ago that you had forgotten that you had not told me about the case you have just solved."

Holmes thought about this for a moment. "We will discuss this later," he said finally, and returned to his chair by the window.

I finished packing in silence, and then took my accustomed place in the chair opposite Holmes. We lit our pipes and settled back in comfort, waiting for the cab to arrive.

"Do you know what sort of a place Portsmouth is?" Holmes asked.

"A great naval city," I replied. "Home to some two hundred thousand souls. Busy, but in a different way to London. The sea air, you see – right on the coast. The town is built on an island, facing the open waters of the English Channel to the south, and on the east and west sides by shallow harbours. The island is separated from the mainland along its northern side by a narrow creek, heavily fortified."

"And the naval base is where?"

It amused me slightly that Sherlock Holmes' knowledge of geography was so limited. Here was a man who could tell the route of a traveller by the mud on his shoes, and yet was unaware of the history of our greatest port. Although, of course, ever since I had first met him he had repeatedly amazed me with his lack of knowledge – or care – in the most practical matters; that the earth moved around the Sun, rather than vice versa, for example.

"In the south-west corner of the island, Holmes. The oldest part of the town faces its neighbour, Gosport, across a narrow channel forming the mouth of the harbour, the deep channel being not more than a hundred yards wide. Just to the north of the town itself, and protected by this narrow harbour entrance, lies the vastness of the dockyard – hundreds of acres of busy industry. Every day dozens of ships of the line pass through that narrow entrance, leaving for destinations as required to protect the Empire. It is said that the whole town works in that place – a little fanciful, perhaps, but certainly the vast majority. It's very much the home of Her Majesty's Royal Navy, Holmes."

"It sounds a grim place."

"It's true the dockyard and the areas around about it are somewhat cramped. There are many public drinking houses – and worse - to cater for the workers and the crews of visiting ships. Those areas have a reputation for the darker excesses of human nature. But get away from the immediate environs and it's as pleasant a place as you could hope for. The southern side of the island is becoming quite popular with those who wish to spend their time by the seaside. Hotels, boarding houses and shops are springing up on what used to be the farmland adjoining the beach. Arthur has rooms in a very serviceable apartment facing the old fortifications on Hampshire Terrace. Oh, I think that after a few days you will find it pleasant enough."

This was clearly the wrong thing to say to my friend. "I cannot be away from the metropolis too long, Watson!" he exclaimed. "Lestrade and Gregson will come to blows without me! But also I cannot ignore the obvious distress of your friend. It is a matter of honour. Ah! The cab arrives. Come, Watson, to Waterloo Bridge Station, and your anxious friend."


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: ACD's invented characters are recognised. Events to historical people are fictitious. Geography is as correct as I can get it.

**Chapter 2**

The morning inrush to London had expired in its usual chaos. Trains pulling into the eleven platforms of Waterloo Bridge Station had disgorged their contents - city workers, bankers, lawyers, they had all made their way from the leafy suburbs of the capital and were now at their desks, working hard to earn their keep. The enormous station now took on a different air as its clientele changed: it was families making out of the metropolis, business people making leisurely journeys to far-flung destinations, servicemen travelling to new postings away from the capital. We joined the crowds on the concourse at the end of the platforms to await my friend's arrival.

The eleven o'clock train pulled in from Portsmouth. We scoured the exiting passengers until at last we saw him – a lonely, haunted, figure. Arthur had obviously not changed his overnight clothes. He saw us at about the same instant as we saw him, and he broke into a run to join us.

"John!" he exclaimed. "Thank goodness you got the telegram. I was worried it might get diverted. And this ..." he turned to my friend ... "is obviously the illustrious Mr Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective." He shook Holmes' hand warmly, who responded with obvious pleasure to the accolade offered.

"Doctor Conan Doyle. Watson has spoken of you."

"I have a fair tale to tell, gentlemen," he continued, "but first, my brain is in such a confusion following this morning's events, and we must urgently speak to the Station Master." With that he was making his way towards the manager's office which sat on a deck above the central platforms.

This clearly bemused Holmes, who had obviously expected to be in charge of whatever was to befall us that morning. "Good sir, wait! Why ....?"

Conan Doyle was almost running at this point, with us behind trying to keep up. "Two trunks were loaded onto a train which arrived here only a few hours ago," he called to us over his shoulder as he hurried towards the Master's office. "I am certain that one contained the body of the murdered woman; the other, perhaps her kidnapped husband. We must track down what happened to them and more importantly, where they were taken and who has them in their keeping."

Holmes, beside me, muttered, "This is getting more and more interesting, Watson. Certainly a most diverting problem to be solved, I can see. And your friend has, as I expected, an admirably organised mind in spite of his experiences earlier today."

Arthur had reached the stairs to the office and was a good dozen steps in front of us as he leaped up them. At the top he paused for us to catch up, and then burst unannounced into the Station Master's office. Although he was none too pleased with the intrusion, being in the middle of his morning refreshment which he spilled all over his desk, the Master soon provided the answer needed – that no large crate, box or any similarly described package had been unloaded from the five o'clock from Portsmouth.

We left the office and returned down the stairs and onto the concourse. The events of the morning were now starting to catch up with Arthur, who was visibly wilting. I proposed some refreshment, and left Holmes with him whilst I purchased three mugs of a liquid which, although advertised as tea, were unlike any version of that beverage I had previously encountered. When I rejoined them Holmes was clearly in his element in concluding his initial questioning of my friend.

"This is becoming quite fascinating, Watson!" he exclaimed as I gave each their beverage. Holmes, I noted, put it to one side and did not touch it again. Arthur drank his in a single draught. "The main point of interest, clearly, is the involvement of the Police. It is not easy to obtain uniforms which are adequate to pass off to an educated man." He smiled at Arthur. "And yes, I have allowed for the fact, as you state, that you were tired and the light was poor. We must not build too much on conjecture, but I believe the balance of probability is that they were genuine policemen."

I must have shown my amazement, for he continued, "Assuming they are genuine – and that is what best fits the, albeit limited, evidence we have at present - there are only two alternatives, Watson. Apart from these two outcomes, no other propositions match the reported events, and so you can follow my methods in concentrating on these two alone. It will avoid crowding out our consideration of the matter in hand with unnecessary mental lumber."

"Very well, lead on, Holmes," I said shakily, but smiling towards Arthur who was watching with amazement to find that what little he had heard about Mr Sherlock Holmes from me was, if anything, understated.

"The first possibility, then, is that these two may have been acting to nefarious ends of their own devising. Please, gentlemen, do not for a moment consider that just because a person is an officer of the law that he is in some way immune from the effect of pressing situations or circumstances which could drive him to desperate measures. Policemen are human too. Alternatively, the more uncomfortable possibility is that they have been tasked by a person or persons unknown, to carry out this activity and have been given the authority to include the murderous act they committed."

My mind was awhirl. "Yes, but Holmes ...."

"Look at what we have to hand. The facts as reported from what your friend has told us. If the two visitors were the genuine article, it becomes clear that, either way, the plan was to abduct the husband with little or no fuss. What better way is there to achieve this, than for policemen to arrive on the scene and arrest him? To 'take him away for questioning'? It is probable, although of course not certain, that the wife was not present at this point – given the time of night I would propose she would still be retired in bed. It was only as, perhaps, the husband made some grievance about the procedure that she arose and the deed was done to her. It could have been in the street, although if so we do have another uncertainty, namely why neighbours were not roused by the commotion or indeed the shot. We will be able to ascertain why this was when we get to the scene. Wounded, she then makes her way to the doctor's house to get help."

"We discussed why it was to my house she came," interrupted Arthur, who was obviously a little brighter for the scant refreshment, and who was indeed eyeing Holmes' undrunk tea with clear greed. "It seems that probably it was by chance. She would not be able to see clearly the house numbers at that time of the morning, gaslight or not. Although I have a doctor's plate on the door, if she had been a patient I would have recognised her."

"So what are you suggesting," I asked, "that the abduction was an arrest gone wrong?"

"No, no, my dear Watson!" laughed Holmes grimly, "By no means. The murder alone, and the express removal of the body as evidence, suggests criminal intent. No, clearly the facts, from what your friend tells me, are these - the planned, forcible, removal from a Portsmouth premises of a gentlemen, present identity unknown, and the shooting to death of his wife, who tried to stop them, has occurred in Portsmouth." A wry smile came to his face, and nodded his consent as Arthur took his drink and downed it in one gulp. "Those are the facts. I can with some confidence add that, in light of the shooting of the wife, their grounds were not what we would term 'legitimate'." I was evidently still showing signs of my amazement at his assertion that officialdom was involved, since his tone became more clipped. "Watson, _you_ may believe they came with genuine intent, but I am afraid that their actions at all points belie their true ambition. They came prepared for any eventuality, to 'get their man' at any cost, and to dispose of any witnesses who may have got involved in the process. Perhaps hoping for none, but being prepared for all."

"But ... the police ..." I was quite at a loss to see how members of our constabulary could display such behaviour and contempt for life. "Surely there could be a more rational explanation...?"

Holmes' eyes flashed in frustration. "No, Watson, it will not do! I am sorry to disabuse you of your sense of right and wrong, of good and evil, and your belief in a clear delineation between the two, but I am very much afraid that here we have a crime which could reveal wrongdoing at the highest levels." He paused for a moment, as if weighing up his next words. "On balance, of the two possibilities I have just outlined, I do not believe we have two wayward officers acting alone. There is too much preparation, and what would the motive be? There is some evidence of a higher, guiding mind. They knew for example that the good Doctor here …" He indicated Arthur. ".... would be able to contact the local constabulary, as indeed he did. Neither would it be practical for the local force to claim the events were otherwise than as he records them. A shooting leaves evidence. I believe that, through your good friend here, we may have stumbled upon a crime conceived and executed by the will of high levels of authority. Which will make getting to a solution most inconvenient."

"Most inconvenient, Holmes?" My mind was still reeling at the prospect of forces of ill at work in one of our greatest and most respected institutions.

Holmes bit his lip in thought. "Yes, inconvenient. There is a danger that once we start to investigate this matter, we will find ourselves pitted not only against the party which has commissioned this deed, but working against us may also be those agents of law and order who we would normally consider to be on 'our side'. We may not be able to turn to them for assistance. These are deep waters indeed."

"But investigate it you must, surely, Mr Holmes!" exclaimed Conan Doyle. "I shall never forget that woman's words, as long as I live. We surely cannot just leave the matter and hope that it goes away."

"Indeed not," replied Holmes with a flash of a smile. Clearly his respect for my friend was growing by the minute. "If only for the sake of the husband, who may even now be suffering distress and be unaware that he is a widower. Watson." He turned to me. "With your friend's leave, I think that we do indeed need to visit the scene of the action."

Arthur brightened visibly. "Good. I hoped for no less when I saw you had prepared bags."

Holmes waved his comment aside. "And you should have expected no less. Watson, three tickets to Portsmouth, as quickly as you can. And don't forget – First Class!"

* * *

Within a few minutes I had procured the required documents, and we made our way to the compartment. Settling ourselves in, I looked at London's hustle and bustle, and quietly said _goodbye_ to it.

The carriage lurched as the train started its journey. As we passed along the platform we saw women waving to their men folk, parents to children, relatives to their kin. And then we were out of the great train shed and running along a viaduct through the grime of the great city, elevated on striding brick pillars above the filthy slums of the metropolis.

Holmes was silent, deep in thought. He seemed to be studying the line of route closely as the train made its way through the urban landscape. Arthur tried to engage him in further conversation, but with a dismissive wave of the hand was made keenly aware that my friend required to be left in silence. Arthur and I thus passed the journey in quiet small talk.

As the journey progressed the inner city gave way first to the leafier suburbs of Surbiton, Wimbledon and Kingston, and then to the open country. The occasional stop at some town or village – Woking, Guildford, Haslemere, Petersfield - punctuated our journey, until at last we passed through a tunnel under the South Downs and started our long, twisting descent to the coast. Holmes was still looking out of the window, watching intently the passing countryside, studying each station as we stopped to let passengers leave or join the train.

In a little over two hours after we left Waterloo Bridge Station, we crossed a wooden drawbridge and were now on the island upon which Portsmouth was built. Fifteen more minutes, and we were standing on the upper level platform of the Town Station, watching the train departing onwards for its terminal call at the Harbour Station.

Holmes had not said a word in the entire journey. We gathered our bags and walked down the steps which connected the upper platform to the concourse below. Away to the northern side of the concourse, workmen were toiling noisily as an extension to the station buildings was being added. Briefly pausing as Holmes studied a timetable in the station lobby, we then passed through the doors of the station and out onto the street. As we did so, the bustle of the naval city welcomed us with a rush of sound and smell. Holmes stopped and looked around with too obvious disdain at the very different manner of population than he had been recently acquainted in the capital.

To the left of the entrance a line of cabs was waiting. We commandeered that at the head of the queue, loaded our cases, and were shortly being driven the short distance to Arthur's house. We passed under the railway bridge, across a building site which the cabbie assured us would one day be the location of a grand Town Hall, and were soon driving down elegant streets lined by trees and fine terraces of houses, three storeys high.

The cab drew to a halt outside Arthur's very handsome house in Hampshire Terrace. A group of workmen were working their way along the pavement from the south, cleaning it thoroughly with buckets of water. "They will destroy evidence of the woman's journey to the good Doctor's house!" Holmes exclaimed, running over to them. We followed to see what influence Holmes would have, being so far from his usual haunts.

"Stop!" he commanded, and the foreman turned angrily to face him.

"Wot? Wot you want, then? Don't you go orderin' my boys around, 'ooever you are, right?"

Holmes stopped abruptly. It was as though I could see the thoughts in his head. _What is this very different form of life…?_

Instead he drew himself up to his full height. "I am Sherlock Holmes. You may have heard of me."

"No." The word was almost spat out in a broad Hampshire drawl.

I caught Arthur's eye and could not help but smile. This could be a long, drawn out investigation.


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: usual disclaimers apply, ACD's characters recognised, historical characters are in a fictional but geographically accurate setting.

**Chapter 3**

We entered Arthur's house, Holmes in a state of evident shock from the lack of recognition he had received. Arthur and I went straight through to the kitchen, whilst Holmes compensated for the slight he had received by spending a few minutes investigating the hallway, lying on the carpeted floor studying blood stains and footprints. After a few minutes he rejoined us, just as the kettle was coming to the boil. Arthur must have seen his somewhat disappointed look, and shortly replaced the teapot with glasses of brandy.

"What strikes you about the case so far?" asked Holmes of us. He eyed us quizzically.

"I think you've already dropped enough bombshells to last me long enough," I replied. "I am quite spent. Why don't you tell us what the interest is?"

"The body or bodies," he replied with agitation. He got up and walked to the kitchen window, looking out over the small but well ordered rear garden. The clear autumn day was starting to cloud over – maybe rain was on its way again. "The two crates did not arrive in London. My study in the station lobby of the railway timetable was most instructive. I can tell you that the train the good doctor saw them being loaded onto – five o'clock from Portsmouth - stops only at Havant, Petersfield, Haslemere, Guildford and Woking. Since they did not arrive at Waterloo Bridge Station, we can therefore safely surmise that they were offloaded at one of those intermediate locations. As we were travelling down I was studying the line of route. Only three of those stations had facilities for luggage handling for the size of container in which we are interested – Havant, Guildford and Woking. So the obvious conclusion is that it was at one of those stations they were offloaded – and with them, in all probability, the two policemen accompanying them."

"Yes, I see," said Arthur, "so the next step would be to telegram those stations and enquire as to what was unloaded off the train."

Again a look of disguised respect seemed to cross Holmes' face for a moment, although he tried to hide it. "Indeed. I have written the required script, and must ask you to have this delivered with haste to the local office."

He tore a page from his notepad and handed it to Arthur, who rose and walked to the front door. Opening it, he put his fingers to his lips and let out a piercing whistle. In a moment, a young lad stood on the doorstep. Arthur handed him the paper Holmes had written, gave him a coin, and sent him on his way with instructions. Arthur returned to the kitchen.

"Billy is very useful – he will always run my medical errands. It pays to have the ability to provide patients with a fast and efficient service when one is still finding one's feet in a new town." I knew the feeling well, and nodded in agreement.

"Well, we can do no more here," said Holmes with an air of resignation. "Needs must, I presume, to encounter the delights of this fair town. I wonder, Doctor, whether you would give us the benefit of your local knowledge to introduce us to the main points of local interest?"

"Do you have anything in particular in mind?"

"The police station would be a good start."

We were interrupted by the sound of a key in the front door, a creak as it opened, and a woman's scream. We sprinted to the hallway to be greeted by the sight of an older lady, clasping her hand to her mouth, looking intently at the dried blood on the carpet.

"Mrs Evans!" exclaimed Arthur. "A thousand apologies! I had no idea that you were returning today, otherwise I would have cleaned this sooner."

"Not before I had seen it," muttered Holmes under his breath. His face broke into a wide smile and he all but launched himself at the woman. He put his arm around her shoulder and ushered her towards the kitchen to distract her from the appalling sight. He sat her at the table, and seated himself opposite.

"Mrs Evans, I take it that you are my new friend's housekeeper – and owner of this fine property?"

"Yes, that it the case. I'm sorry, you are ….?"

Holmes was visibly taken aback. "My name is Sherlock Holmes." He clearly expected this to result in a reaction, but none came. "This is intolerable…" he muttered under his breath. Nevertheless, he continued valiantly. "Madam, may I ask, have there been any unexpected visitors to the house in the past few days?"

"Not before I went away, there have not. I can't speak for the past week of course."

Holmes considered this and nodded. "Any visitors to adjoining houses? New arrivals? Not..." he quickly added, "that you spy on your neighbours of course. But just in case you have noticed anything."

"There was a new family moved in last month – three doors up – the whitewashed one, number sixteen. A young couple, him in the money profession, and working in the Commercial Road. She is quiet, I haven't seen much of her. Otherwise, just the usual comings and goings of this part of town. There's always soldiery on the streets – right on the ramparts, you see."

This was indeed true. The houses only lined one side of the Terrace, the other was laid to a narrow garden behind railings, on the far side of which were the embankments of the town's defences, now being removed and landscaped as methods of warfare changed.

"I wonder …" mused Holmes. He took his leave from Mrs Evans, for whom Arthur was now preparing tea. I followed him at a little distance as he took his leave, walked out onto the street and along a few doors to the newly occupied house. He studied the step and then rang the doorbell. The door was opened by a tall, moustached young man of perhaps twenty and five years of age. Behind him in the hallway stood his wife, a strikingly beautiful woman of perhaps the same age, or a little younger.

Holmes spoke briefly to them, and then bade his leave. "Ah, Watson! They saw and heard nothing. I had hoped, of course, that the property was empty – that would have been too easy a conclusion as to the missing couple's identity, perhaps! So…" he continued, addressing his comments to Arthur, who had now joined us; "I think I have seen all I need to here. By your leave, I would suggest that you two gentlemen walk on and engage rooms at a suitable hotel, where I will join you shortly. What does the good Doctor recommend?"

For a moment I thought Holmes was talking to me, before I remembered Arthur was a medical man too. "Holmes, don't you think you should call Arthur, 'Arthur'? It would be more convenient…"

Holmes gave me one of his 'looks'. "No, Watson, no more than I would call you 'John'. I was not brought up thus, to show disrespect. I am on first name terms with few of my acquaintances."

Arthur broke in. "Queens Hotel, on the Pier Road, alongside the Common. It is rather excellent – and not too pricey. Of course…" he continued, rather sadly I thought, "I haven't actually stayed there, but I hear it well spoken of."

"It is done, then. _John_, you and _Arthur_ proceed to the Queens Hotel and there catch up on old times. I will make a few further enquiries here – with the leave of the local constabulary of course - and join you shortly." I thought the emphasis he put on our names was rather unnecessary.

I tried suggesting that we remain to help him, but Holmes was quite firm in his assertion that we were to continue without him. We bade _adieu_ to Arthur's landlady, walked down Hampshire Terrace and Landport Terrace towards the sea front, turned left and strolled through the tree-lined paths of the Common – still clinging to a few late autumn leaves – before reaching the Hotel. We quickly engaged two rooms and made our way to my suite, but rather than talk more I suggested he take an opportunity for a rest whilst I went to the lounge for a drink and smoke. I was fully aware of what he needed – a good eight hours' sleep, so I left him with my promise that should anything come to pass he would be the first to know. I retired to the lounge to spend some pleasant moments reflecting on the day's events. By now it was approaching five o'clock in the afternoon and the light was fading.

A knock at the door of the lounge announced the return of Holmes. He strolled in, and threw himself down into the chair by the window. The look on his face said it all.

"Absolutely hopeless!" he exclaimed. "I thought our colleagues in the Metropolitan Force were inept to the point of unreason, but this …..!" He paused for breath. "You know what they have done?" I indicated I did not. "They have done such a good job in the street that they have removed any evidence of the woman's struggle to Doctor Conan Doyle's door. There is nothing for me to trace from whence the woman made her journey."

"It is hardly unexpected, Holmes. Mrs Evans did not react well to the sight of blood. Few do."

"Rubbish!" Holmes was becoming quite animated. "They have a duty to investigate a crime. How can they do it without carefully examining the evidence – all of it? The police ordered the cleaning of the street. Think about it! They can't just go barging in and remove evidence or destroy it. Once it's gone, it's gone. And as for the quality of the local constable – I visited the police station and saw the notes he took when Doctor Conan Doyle visited him earlier this morning. Hopeless and useless."

"Holmes, be steady," I cautioned. His voice was raised and attracting attention – and disapproving glances - from other guests. "Perhaps the ways of the Metropolitan Force have not made their way here yet. Maybe that's why I need to keep my journal – how else will anyone learn of the correct method of investigation?" Holmes 'tutted' but the point was not lost on him, and he visibly swelled with pride in his chair. "And of course, remember what you yourself said back in London this morning. If the local force is implied in the events, might you not expect them to remove evidence?"

Holmes smiled one of his warm but slightly pitying smiles at me. "You are of course absolutely correct, Watson," he replied. "Although, perhaps, not as regards the journal! But, yes, I had considered that possibility. I have interviewed every person I could find who was in the area immediately following the event – police, neighbours, various town servants. No witnesses to the shooting of course, and indeed nothing of any use. You know what this means, of course?"

"They were mistaken."

He sighed impatiently. "It means that your friend is the only witness to every – every, mark you – part of his retelling of the events. There is no other evidence to support his story. No-one heard a gun shot. No-one saw the body being taken away. No-one saw anything other than two cabinets being loaded onto the morning train. No-one saw the men he reports."

"The blood, Holmes!"

"The blood could be anyone's. He is a doctor, after all! Agreed, there were two sets of footprints on the hallway carpet, excluding Doctor Conan Doyle's – his shoes are rather undersize to account for the prints – but again he could have used another person's shoes. It is not hard to come by used footwear for sale."

"Used?"

"Both sets of prints indicated wear on the soles."

"But come, Holmes - you still think he is trustworthy, though?"

To my alarm, Holmes actually took a moment to reply: "For your sake, I hope he is. The alternative – if he is telling the truth - is that we are dealing with some very clever, well connected people at a high level of authority – and that fits with what he reports. People able to manipulate events and remove evidence quickly and thoroughly. But the fact, Watson, remains that the evidence of one man is poor evidence indeed."

I remembered a fact that could support Arthur's version of events. "Surely the footprints you report – does not the Force have a specific issue of footwear?"

"Yes, but just suppose your friend is not being wholly honest with us – however unlikely it may be. It would be easy for him to procure surplus pairs. This is, as you have reminded me more than once, a naval town. As a result, standards in civilian life are lower. Now, Watson, I need to clear this lumber, and I must ask you as a friend and trusted colleague - how well do you know him? Really know him?"

I was doing my best not to become affronted or discouraged by Holmes' doubts. "Well, we have been acquainted on and off for some ten years - well before my military postings. We are not what you would call 'close' friends. But I respect him for his knowledge. He has been there for me when I have needed support, Holmes."

Further conversation was cut short as a knock at the door was followed shortly by Arthur entering the room. "I thought I heard raised voices. What news, Mr Holmes?"

"Nothing of any importance," replied my friend. "A very thorough job has been done of clearing the area so quickly that there is little evidence to find to support your retelling of the events."

Arthur was clearly taken aback by the tone of Holmes' reply, and probably guessed the content of the conversation we were having at the time he walked in. He looked to me for encouragement. "I know you need to have an enquiring mind, Mr Holmes, and it does you credit, but I assure you that I am telling the truth."

"We will follow what little we have in a planned and organised way," replied Holmes. "The outcome of our studies will determine the veracity of your statement. But be warned, sir, I do not take kindly to time wasting."

Arthur's hackles were rising, and I have to admit, mine too. "Holmes!" I said. "Come, man, give him a chance at least."

"That I will do. It all hangs on the results of the telegram I sent earlier this afternoon. Until the reply is in my hands there is nothing else that I can do to further my enquiries. I am suspending my efforts. Now - is there anywhere in this place that offers civilised entertainment?"

"A number of theatres. This Hotel has a good reputation for food." Arthur was quite downcast. "I don't know how any show would compare to what you're used to, I'm afraid."

"So, evening meal, then," said Holmes, "and then … we shall see."


	5. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Holmes and Watson belong to ACD. ACD himself is of course an historical person but in a fictional setting. Other individuals are my inventions. Geography and historical detail are as accurate as I can get it. Thank you for the reviews; and, AmatorLinguae, you're right, I'd got the naming conventions wrong - first names were generally only used in the closeness of immediate familial groups, so these should now be better!

**Chapter 4**

A heavy air of dejection hung over our little party as we made our way back from the Kings Theatre. Although our meal had been pleasant enough it had been overshadowed somewhat by an air of disagreement between Doyle and Holmes. Both had picked at their food rather nervously, whereas I had enjoyed mine thoroughly.

The theatre had been a mistake, however. It had been bad enough that the production was of such poor quality – "If that had been put on in London there would have been a riot," was Holmes' exact expression of his displeasure. But afterwards Holmes continued to complain bitterly about how a better job could have been made of the production had he been able to influence it. Doyle was of course defensive and tired, and I was stuck in the middle trying to act as arbiter.

A light rain was falling as we made our way back to the hotel – a short, ten minute walk, pleasant enough even in the drizzle, since the late autumn was still mild. The expected heavier rain was holding off. We arrived back in the Hotel at ten minutes to eleven and Holmes' temper thankfully improved when the porter advised him that a telegram was waiting his collection.

We collected the document and hurried up to my room, where Holmes ripped it open. He looked at the contents for a moment, and then at Doyle.

"It seems, Doctor," he said, "that I owe you an apology. Watson." He passed the telegram to me, and I shared the contents with Doyle.

"Two crates found at Havant. I think we can safely assume these crates may hold the clues we need as to the abducted couple. And so, again, my apologies, Doctor."

"Accepted!" replied Doyle, immediately looking much brighter. The fact that he was looking much brighter over the discovery of one, or more probably two, dead people was a mark of how upset he had been that Holmes doubted him.

"So, to our repose, gentlemen!" exclaimed Holmes, making for the door. "Tomorrow we travel to Havant, examine the evidence, and see where that leads us."

"You have an idea, Holmes," I said. "I can tell."

"Perhaps. Tomorrow we shall see what develops. Goodnight, gentlemen." With that he was gone. We heard his steps going down the nearby staircase.

Doyle bade his leave of me, the look of relief as he left very real. "He is a remarkable man, is he not, Watson?" he stated. "Takes nothing at face value. Tests everything. I wager he's running with an idea and has even now gone to send another telegraph! But thank goodness I am no longer at the receiving end of his deliberations! Good night."

* * *

The morning brought the expected rain, in sheets as it blew in from the English Channel. After breakfast we ordered a cab and were soon boarded at the Town Station for the short train ride to Havant, where we arrived shortly after ten o'clock. The Station Master was waiting for us on the platform, with umbrellas for our use. He shook our hands warmly, and Holmes' particularly, as though his status was close to royalty.

"Mr Holmes, sir, pleased to see you, that I am. Jeremiah Edwards I am, sir. Most unusual, most uncertain, but your recommendation from Mr Gregson makes me think you must be something special." Holmes warmed visibly to the blustering man.

We were quickly escorted into the Goods Shed alongside the station, our umbrellas struggling against the wind until we were inside the dark, eerie space. In one corner was a strong room of sorts, with a heavy, bolted door. Jeremiah Edwards unlocked the door and beckoned us in, making sure there was no-one around to witness our activity. I was quite at a loss as to why this should be, and enquired of Holmes.

"My dear Watson," he replied, with that unnecessarily patient voice that he sometimes used when he was hiding his disappointment at my slowness, "if the local constabulary are involved, the last thing we want is for them to get rid of the only evidence we have. Once I knew that the crates were here, I telegraphed Mr Edwards here last night and told him to have them secured until I was able to see them. I referred him to Gregson up in London in case he needed persuasion that I had some sway and experience in these matters." Edwards nodded enthusiastically to verify this statement.

In a corner of the strong room were two wooden crates, placed upright against the wall. The four of us manhandled them into a horizontal position, and then Holmes asked for a crow bar.

"What do you expect to find, sir?" asked Edwards.

"It might be better if you were not here to see," said Holmes.

"Oh, no, sir, that's alright. I'll stay. After all, they are technically railway property until collected, and I take it, in spite of your good reference, that you are not the legal owner of the contents?"

Holmes broke open the lid of the first crate, to reveal the body of a young woman, her dress still stained with blood from the gunshot wound which had killed her. Jeremiah Edwards collapsed in a dead faint.

"No," said Holmes softly, "I am not the owner."

"That is the woman who came to my door, Mr Holmes," said Doyle.

"So to the second crate." Holmes broke that open, to reveal the body of a young man. His throat had been cut.

Holmes was silent for a moment, and then knelt down and started going through the man's pockets. With an exclamation he drew out a small notebook. Opening it, he pored over the contents of a couple of pages, and then put it in his pocket. He continued searching the rest of the man's clothing but clearly found nothing else of interest.

"Doctors," he said, standing up, "I need to know an approximate time of death, and beyond the obvious, any particular information regarding the method of execution of this foul deed."

Doyle and I spent an unpleasant few minutes investigating the bodies, and estimated that the man had died after his wife – and certainly within four hours.

"So," said Holmes, "as I see it, then, they would have arrived here at about half past five yesterday morning. No doubt by then this poor wretch was dead – undoubtedly they questioned him whilst in the parcel van, killed him and put him in the crate. Otherwise his wife would not have said to you that the policemen had 'taken him', Doctor Doyle." He looked at the still unconscious Station Master lying on the ground beside us, whilst I smiled to myself that, now he had regained Holmes' confidence, the latter was using a more familiar means of address towards my medical friend. "As our recumbent friend here says, the crates were unloaded here but were unaccompanied. Meaning that the policemen stayed on the train, and so of course we have no idea where they alighted. Unless we are very fortunate, that particular trail ends here." He sighed slightly.

He walked across to the first crate and looked down sadly at the woman's body. He seemed lost in thought for a moment. "They questioned him about something – some piece of information he had, perhaps, and then killed him. Did he break? Did he tell them what they wanted to know? Or are they still trying to find out what he knew?"

The Station Master was starting to come round. I ministered to him with brandy from my hip flask, and he slowly got to his feet, avoiding looking at the contents of the crates.

"I think," said Holmes, "that the local constabulary had better be informed of the discovery of these bodies. Well done, you have made a fine job of intercepting the crates before they were lost."

Edwards looked confused, but before Holmes was able to reply Doyle was able to enlighten him.

"What Mr Holmes means, is that you can take the credit for their discovery. I think we are going to go now, and I think it best if you do not mention that we were here."

Holmes looked at him with a look of undisguised amazement on his face. "Very impressive," I whispered in Doyle's ear with a smile, clapping him on the back.

"Very well, sirs, I will make the arrangements." Edwards led us from the building, and locked the door behind him. Within a few minutes we were back on the platform, waiting for the next train back to Portsmouth, which duly arrived on time, and we soon found ourselves back at Doyle's rooms in Southsea. The rain had stopped and the arrival of the sun promised a rather pleasant day ahead.

"So, Mr Holmes," said Doyle, as he handed us our drinks, "what was in the notebook?"

"Hmmm?" Holmes seemed distracted.

"The notebook. You took a notebook from the pocket of the deceased gentleman."

"Your observance does you proud. I have been very impressed with your consideration, Doctor Doyle. I may soon have two companions in arms, I see. Yes, the notebook. I retain some hope that its contents will reveal some clue to this mystery. However, as you can see ....." At this he tossed the notebook to Doyle, who opened it and checked the pages. "You will see that it appears to be written in code. Albeit a simple one."

"Maybe a code or cipher, but I would say it contains no other information than start and finish times of colleagues working arrangements. Colleagues at the National Bank in Commercial Road, Portsmouth, from what it says on the flyleaf."

Holmes smiled broadly, and rubbed his hands together. "Watson, this is a rare treat! That is indeed what I believe it to be. You notice the arrangement, in three columns per dated page, with figures written in a neat hand. Of the form _AB 1000 300_ indicating, I would surmise, that whoever AB is, they started at 10 o'clock and left at 3 o'clock."

"Why would he keep such details?" I asked. "Could it not be that the information was going to be used in a robbery of the bank premises?"

"If that were the case," replied Holmes, "then why did the kidnappers leave the notebook on his person? It was easy enough to find. And it is of no intrinsic value in itself – there will always be more than one person on duty at any time. I think, after we have partaken of some lunch, we may pay a visit to the National Bank, but only to close off this line of enquiry."

"I will make the arrangements," said Doyle, and left the room. Holmes turned to me and I could tell from his face that all was not well.

"This is impossible! One dead end – if you will excuse the expression – after another. But Doyle – an impressive acquaintance of yours, Watson. Well found."

"Surely, there has to be some indication of the way forward."

"We will see what a visit to the bank can tell us, but otherwise there is no evidence to build even the outline of a case."

I admit to being worried about my friend's demeanour. "Perhaps it is the adjustment to the sea air, Holmes." I was trying to be of good humour, but I could see the first signs of the onset of one of his famous 'moods'.

Holmes smiled darkly. "I have done something that I never thought possible. I have left it behind in London."

"'It'?"

"You know..... 'it'...." Holmes was interrupted by Doyle's return.

"I have arranged for us to have a meal with Mrs Evans. After yesterday's excitement she is quite recovered, and wants to hear about London. She has never been, and hears that it can be quite diverting."

Holmes' face was a sight to behold. A mixture of emotion – dread, tiredness, frustration, interest, even hunger – crossed his features in a glorious collision of expression. It was as though all his positive thoughts about my friend had dissolved in an instant.

"Come, Holmes," I encouraged him, "it will be an opportunity for you to study the sort of person you wouldn't normally come into contact with – a whole new breed. The 'seaside landlady', I think they are called if my recollection is correct. I am sure she will have some stories to tell, and who knows, perhaps something she says will spark a thought."

Holmes muttered under his breath about the unlikelihood of that event, but Mrs Evans joined us at that point and so he was unable to continue.

In truth the meal was a success. Holmes had obviously determined to lift his mood, and did so successfully, regaling us with tales of some of his earlier cases. I made mental notes as the meal progressed to ask him about some of these later - once he had accepted the idea of my chronicling his cases. _The Blue Pearl_, _The Stolen Emerald_ .... it was at that moment, I think, that I realised that part of the job of the chronicler would be to give names to his cases. Not an easy task; I am happy to record events, but not to invent names for them.

The meal over, we retired to the drawing room at the front of the house, smoked our pipes for a while, and then made the leisurely, twenty minute walk northwards to the National Bank in the Commercial Road. We introduced ourselves to the doorman and asked to speak to the manager. Holmes busied himself whilst waiting for the summons, looking around the banking hall, noting the layout, and spending some time studying the list of names on the staff board. Shortly we were escorted into the manager's office, who received us with interest after hearing that we were calling about one of his employees.

We sat ourselves in front of the enormous oak desk. I looked round at the high oak panelled walls and for a moment I was back in the Headmaster's office at school. The manager, a heavily built Scot by the name of Gordon Steel, did not get up, and sat with the desk between us. He listened gravely as Doyle introduced us and explained the events of the previous and present mornings. Mr Steel then opened a folder on the left hand of his desk. In it was a single sheet of paper, written in a flowing script – the same script as in the notebook found on the body in the crate. He handed it to Holmes.

Holmes raised an eyebrow as he read the letter. "So, Mr Francis _Holloway_ offered his resignation from the bank at the end of business the evening before last, then ...."

"Yes, Mr Holmes. All the other staff are here as normal today, back of office as well as front. Holloway had been with us for about a month, joining us from our Fenchurch Street branch in London. He was an exemplary employee, and I trusted him completely. I am not aware of any domestic issues or money worries which could have led to any pressures either at home or at work. He was always willing to help, putting in extra hours if we asked him. His worksheets were neat and accurate, and on a number of occasions I was able to leave him to conclude discussions with major customers, in complete satisfaction that he would handle the business accurately and professionally."

Holmes handed him Holloway's notebook. "Do you know of any reason why he would be keeping records of staff in this way?"

Steel looked through the pages. "No, I do not. He was somewhat – how can I phrase this – obsessive in some of his methods. He would leave for his luncheon at exactly fifteen minutes past twelve each day, for example, and would become quite vexed if he was unable to keep to that time. But otherwise .... no, I see no reason why he should keep a record such as this." He handed the notebook back to Holmes, and took a deep breath. "I am indeed, very sorry to hear of his demise. You are certain, I assume, that it is he...?"

Holmes described the man whose body we had found in the crate, and Mr Steel hung his head in silence for a moment.

"Yes, that is Holloway," he said. "I am very sorry. His wife will need our assistance. I will send someone to his address."

"We can do that," said Holmes. "What is the address, please?"

Mr Steel looked surprised for a moment, but seemed to be unable to resist Holmes' air of authority. "Sixteen Landport Terrace. Down towards the pier, facing the old ramparts." Doyle was about to say something but Holmes shot him a glance.

"I know it well," replied Holmes. He seemed now eager to leave, and rose from his seat. We did likewise.

"Many thanks to you, Mr Steel," said Holmes, offering his hand, which the other shook. We left the office and shortly were out onto the main street again.

"Well..?" said Holmes, his face transformed from earlier – now it showed excitement and expectation.

"We have a name and we know where he lived," I replied.

"More than that!" exclaimed my friend. "Quickly now…." Telling us to wait, he sprinted across the road, and went into the post office. After a few minutes he came back out, and whistled to commandeer a nearby cab. "We need to get to Landport Terrace."

The cab started with a jolt, barely before we were seated. Settling ourselves into the cramped interior, he continued, "Indeed, gentlemen, we have a name, and with that comes much information. We know too where he lived – one road away from you, Doctor Doyle, if I am not mistaken – and I am sure that, using some of our unofficial skills, Watson and I can effect an entry to investigate the premises. But he also lived at the same house number, and worked at the same bank, as does your new neighbour, whose name I know from my interview with him yesterday. Their names – _Holloway_ and _Franks_ - are on the bank's staff board. I do not believe in co-incidences, gentlemen. I think the threads in this story start to be disentangled, but I am afraid we will need to move rather quickly to avoid more deaths."


	6. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Holmes and Watson belong to ACD; ACD himself is in a fictional setting. Other characters are of my invention. Geography is pretty accurate. The politics probably isn't – but hey, it's a story!

**Chapter 5**

The cab drew up outside number sixteen, Landport Terrace. The road was a continuation of the road in which Arthur Conan Doyle resided – in fact we had walked past the house a number of times over the past day as we went to and from the Hotel. Like the accommodation on Hampshire Terrace, the houses were handsome, although in these properties nearer the sea the buildings rose to four floors in height.

Doyle paid off the cabbie. We stood in the road for a few moments and then Holmes strode off, with us following, south to the next road junction. Turning left, we proceeded down Kings Road and shortly turned left again into the rear service alley behind the properties fronting onto Landport Terrace. By this means we found ourselves at the rear garden gate of number sixteen. Holmes tried the door latch, and it opened quietly. We proceeded into the garden, and to the back door of the property.

"You may wish to leave us at this point, Doctor Doyle," he whispered to my friend. "What Watson and I are about to do is not strictly – legal."

"No, I am with you, Mr Holmes" replied Doyle. "I am finding your investigation quite invigorating."

Holmes nodded and extracted a bundle of keys from his waistcoat pocket. Within a few moments the back door was open and we were inside the house. I was last in and closed the door quietly behind me.

"Disturb nothing," whispered Holmes, "but we need to be quick. Look for anything that seems out of place or unusual. Touch nothing – call me if you find anything."

We split up and searched the house. After some fifteen minutes we were back where we had started. All was in order; no suspicious papers, no hidden safes. Nothing out of the ordinary at all – just a new family home, recently moved into and therefore not generously furnished. The injustice of the situation burned in me as I knew that this home would now never be enjoyed by that young couple who had come to such an end. I was quite upset, and obviously showed it, for Holmes queried it.

"Why?" I replied, "Well for one thing, because we have found absolutely nothing to take us forward in finding out the motive for yesterday's events."

"On the contrary," said Holmes, coolly. "We have found exactly what I expected."

"Which is ...?"

"Nothing."

"Why are you happy with finding nothing?" asked Doyle.

"Because it means that we can maybe stop further bloodshed and distress. Come, time to go."

Lost as to what Holmes was referring to, we followed him out of the back door, which he locked behind us. Within a few more minutes we had retraced our steps and were back in the drawing room in Doyle's house, looking out through the windows as the sun started to set behind the ramparts. Outside the gas lights were being lit.

I was the first to break the silence. "You are going to have to explain this, Holmes."

"It is quite straightforward," my friend replied. "Look at the similarities. Two young families move into the area at roughly the same time. They work at the same bank. They live at the same house number, albeit on adjoining roads. Their names are similar – what is Francis shortened to?"

I was starting to see where Holmes was going. "Frank. Great heavens, Holmes! So you think that yesterday morning's events were a case of mistaken identity? They thought that they had Franks, when they had _Frank_ … Holloway?"

"I believe Mr Franks to be their target, and he is living but three doors from here." He looked at his watch. "So we must wait until he returns home tonight, and then hopefully, if he will accept us, we can at least warn him of the danger he is in. We may even be able to uncover what it is that the abductors want from him. If he will have us, we may be able to protect him – and his wife. Watson, we may need to be prepared for the worst."

I patted the gun concealed in my waistcoat pocket. "I have brought it just in case."

Mrs Evans served us with tea, and we sat and waited. After a few minutes we heard the door close as she left the house for her regular social with the 'local harpies' as Doyle called them, much to our shameful amusement. Holmes looked at his watch on a number of occasions, and as time went on was obviously starting to get concerned.

"The bank closes at three thirty. Allowing for booking up, I would expect him to be home at six. It is now a quarter past six. Where is he...?"

By half past six Holmes was extremely animated. He paced to and fro around the room, regularly checking the street outside through the curtains. Finally – "At last!" he exclaimed as the object of his concern passed the window. "Come gentlemen, let us make ourselves known, and hopefully start to bring this matter to a conclusion."

We caught up with Franks at his door. On Holmes' calling his name he started, and fumbled to get his key into the door. "Mr Franks!" exclaimed Holmes, "we are for you, Sir!"

Franks opened the door, and tried to close it on us but I had my cane and thrust it into the gap so the door was unable to be closed. Franks flushed with anger, and shouted for his wife, who came running from a back room. To my alarm she was carrying a heavy walking stick which she raised above her head and prepared to strike.

"Madam! Sir!" exclaimed Holmes again. "We are here to save you!"

"What do you mean?" shouted Franks, although there was a note of enquiry in his voice.

"I know what you fear!" replied Holmes.

Franks and his wife stopped struggling. She lowered the stick, and we were allowed into the hallway. Franks closed the door behind him, and leant against it as if to catch his breath.

"You are Mr Sherlock Holmes, of course."

I must have gasped in amazement that Franks knew of Holmes, but Holmes for his part was visibly moved. It was after all the first time in two days that anyone had even heard of him without being prompted.

"Yes, I am. And you are, of course, Reginald Franks – of the Metropolitan Force. I have seen your name on a couple of Lestrade's reports, but I have never been able to put a face to the name, although we did speak briefly yesterday. I thought it would be you when I saw your name on the staff list at the bank."

"Touché, Mr Holmes!" laughed Franks. "Let me introduce Mary Wilcox, who is posing as my wife for the duration."

The woman visibly relaxed and extended her hand to Holmes.

Holmes introduced Doyle and I, and continued his enquiry. "May I ask, for the duration of what, precisely?" asked Holmes. We two were still silent with amazement at this unexpected turn of events, although as usual Holmes was acting as though he had known the couple for years and was merely picking up a previous conversation where it had been left off.

Franks thought for a moment, looking to his companion, who nodded her approval. "Shall we go through to the lounge?"

We walked through the hallway and into the lounge. Its furnishings were minimal, merely a number of small chairs and a table. No carpet was on the floor. The house was obviously a short-term arrangement for whatever activity these two were involved in. We sat down, away from the window, and the gaslight was set low.

"Have you heard of 'White Powder', Mr Holmes?"

Holmes smiled. "A new explosive. A theoretical development, I believe. Reputedly the next step change in warfare. If it can ever be made to work."

"You have done your research well, Mr Holmes," replied Franks. "The weapons we presently use reply on gunpowder for the combustive effect - which of course when ignited gives off a cloud of smoke. This in turn gives away the location of those firing the weapon. Makes returning fire very easy for the opponent – there is no element of surprise once firing starts. Now this 'White Powder' uses a different chemical mix, which is more powerful but gives off little or no smoke – just a puff of clear gas. It is three times more powerful than the gunpowder."

"I had in fact heard more in the order of five times, but such information is unhelpful. It is a theory. It is so unstable it cannot be used."

"The Home Secretary has asked us to investigate reports of a most alarming nature – that the production of stable, usable White Powder has been successfully achieved."

Holmes' face froze. "That would be a most serious development indeed. It could change the balance of power in a conflict. The army using it would have a considerable advantage over its opposition."

"Our concern exactly. Her Majesty's Government has asked that the investigation be made by us rather than the army due to the – sensitive nature of the discovery. And although you are correct in that I used to work with Inspector Lestrade, at this time we ourselves are no longer – exactly – the police."

Holmes leaned forward in the chair, obviously intrigued. "But surely, the difficulty in obtaining the correct chemical mixture makes its production extremely dangerous. There would be as much danger to those using it as to those at its receiving end."

"So we had hoped, Mr Holmes," said Miss Wilcox. "However we have it on good authority that a viable process has indeed been discovered which removes much of the danger in its production. Which brings us to the question you obviously want answered – why we are here."

Holmes laughed. "Please, indulge me! You are here because you believe that this evil substance is here in Portsmouth. Our Government wishes evidence of the substance to be quietly removed without either home or foreign powers knowing of its existence. To the English its use would be ungentlemanly; in the hands of a foreign power its use would provide an overwhelming advantage in battle."

Franks in his turn whistled. "You are everything I have heard of you, Mr Holmes!" he said. Holmes nodded in appreciation, visibly moved. "I will tell you all we know. We have learned that a viable portion of this wicked substance has been produced in France by anarchic conspirators. A crate containing the powder was loaded onto a commercial fishing vessel which sailed from Cherbourg four nights ago, and docked at the Fish Quay here on the 13th. Unfortunately by the time we had received information from our French security colleagues that the shipment had been made, it had been offloaded and we have been unable to trace its whereabouts. We are certain, however, that it has not been moved outside of the town."

I interrupted. "This all sounds well, but why are the police after you, then? If you work for or with the London force, why was an attempt made to kidnap you ..." I looked to Holmes for support as I expounded my interpretation of the events. "For I assume, although you haven't said it in so many words, that is the full story. Poor Holloway was kidnapped - and his wife murdered outright – by people who believed that they in fact had you in their power. They wanted your knowledge – or wanted you silenced. They just got the address of the road wrong – sixteen Landport Terrace instead of sixteen Hampshire Terrace – but they killed them anyway. Be that as it may, they were real policemen, so I ask again – why?"

"It's a good question, and is simple to answer, Doctor Watson," replied Franks gravely. "We believe that the Chief of Police here in Portsmouth is being blackmailed by those same French conspirators regarding some ... unsound meetings he attended whilst in Paris a couple of years ago. Probably set up by them in the first place, no doubt, to trap him and get him in their power. Meetings of an intimate nature. Need I say more? We surmise that he is using one or two of those officers closest to him, being equally unscrupulous, to do that which the blackmailers require of him: namely to silence us, to enable their plan to proceed. All the time we are here, they know that we will be on guard for any suspicious activity and will act to stop it."

"Then why don't you just arrest the Police Chief?" I asked.

"Too public, too obvious," replied Franks. "The use or production of the material has clearly not been officially sanctioned by the French government; in truth I would imagine they would be rather embarrassed were its manufacture to be traced to their soil. The recent history between our nations has only recently been repaired. Any trace of French involvement – however tenuous – would undo the good work that has been done in diplomacy."

"What can we do to help, then?" asked Doyle. I was most impressed with how this general practice doctor was finding his feet in the realm of political intrigue.

"We need to know where the White Powder is," he replied. Mary Wilcox added, "And of course we need evidence. Everything we have told you is true, but there isn't a shred of evidence to prove it in a court of law. Not yet."

"We know we are being watched," continued Franks. "I had to take a circuitous route tonight to shake them off. Two of the local police force. If you were to glimpse though the curtain, you would see them even now at the end of the street. If you wish to help us, we need to throw them off our scent for a little while. Or rather, I need to throw them off my scent." He turned to his colleague. "Mary, it is too dangerous." She nodded. "If I can exchange clothing with one of you gentlemen, then I can leave the premises and continue the investigation without hindrance."

"How do you know we're not being watched as well?" Doyle asked.

"I don't, but I know for sure that I am," Franks replied. "Well, will you help?"

"I will," I replied. "We are about the same build."

"Good," said Franks, and stood up. We heard no shot, but the window shattered in response to the bullet passing through it, and he fell dead at my feet, a single shot through his head.


	7. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Holmes and Watson belong to ACD; ACD is a real person in a fictional setting. Other characters are of my invention. The geography of the story is accurate. The history isn't, although 'White Powder' is a real development, by the French, within the timeline the story is set.

**Chapter 6**

We all threw ourselves to the floor. Mary Wilcox screamed as a second bullet smashed the other pane of glass in the large window, showering us with fragments.

"Quickly, quickly!" Holmes exclaimed, and on hands and knees we made our way out of the front room and into the hallway. Holmes extinguished the gaslight burning there, plunging the house into darkness. Miss Wilcox was in tears, desperately wanting to stay behind to help Franks, but I rather forcibly encouraged her to come with us – "He is gone. There is nothing that can be done for him."

"Where does the back door lead to?" asked Holmes urgently.

"Same as all these houses," Miss Wilcox replied shakily, looking back towards the room where Franks lay dead, "into a rear servicing alleyway…"

"Then quickly!" exclaimed Holmes, and we stood and ran through the dark house. We reached the rear door in the kitchen, and Doyle peered out through the smoked glass.

"All seems clear," he whispered. Miss Wilcox unlocked the door, and we quickly made our exit to the garden, just as we heard the lock on the front door starting to be forced. Blessing the cover of darkness, Holmes opened the garden gate carefully and checked the way was clear. Doyle in front, we entered the service alley and stole southwards until it reached the junction with Landport Street. He led us as we broke into a run, and we indeed ran until our lungs were fit to burst, as though all the forces of evil were on our trail.

We used the narrower and quieter side streets rather than the main routes. Heading first eastwards through the well tended grounds of St Paul's Square and on King Street, we then turned southwards and made our along Norfolk Street and Castle Road. In this way we continued for a good mile, stopping every so often to ensure we were not being followed. On a couple of occasions we stole into gardens as we saw suspicious people ahead or behind. Although of course, there were probably few things which could have looked more suspicious than our own process, three gentlemen and a lady, running and hiding in equal amounts.

After perhaps ten minutes the surroundings started to become more familiar, until there before us was presented our Hotel. Doyle was about to run on headlong, but Holmes slowed us and checked the way was clear again before we duly sprinted across the Osborne Road and, much to the surprise of the Doorman, into the lobby.

A few minutes later and we were in Holmes' room, gasping for breath and only just realising the shock we had experienced. The brandy which was provided for each room in the Hotel was consumed, including by the lady, rather too quickly for my liking. Holmes left us whilst we continued to recover, and when he rejoined us he brought fresh drinks and the evening newspaper. We sat quietly for a few minutes, Holmes looking out of the window across the Common towards the ships moored in rows in the open waters of Spit Head, obviously deep in thought; and Mary Wilcox sobbing quietly. At last he seemed to reach some sort of mental conclusion, and called us together so that we were sitting facing each other, Miss Wilcox and Holmes on individual chairs and Doyle and I sharing a settee.

"Madam," Holmes said. "At the last we are now ready to review the evening's events. You need to tell us what you know of this conspiracy. How far the plans have progressed and whether you have any idea of the intended outcome. If you are to succeed in what you have been tasked to do, you must trust us and allow us to play a part in assisting you."

She thought for a moment, as if weighing up the degree of trust she had in us. "Mr Holmes, I volunteered for this assignment," she started hesitantly. "He didn't know it, he just thought I wanted to serve with him, but I …. I loved Reginald. He always knew what to do, he was always seemed so in control of everything. With him around, everything seemed to go well. I don't know what we can do now. It was not hard to play the part of his doting wife. I loved him …." We looked away and waited in silence whilst she quietly wept, and then gathered herself.

"I'm sorry, you must forgive me. This has all been a most unexpected change in our circumstances. The key to the whole affair is the White Powder. The French have been working on it for a few years, and refer to it as 'Poudre Blanche'. I don't know the technical details, but I think it is made from two forms of nitrocellulose..."

"Collodion and guncotton," Holmes interrupted.

"… And then softened with ethanol and ether, and kneaded together into a sort of dough. However the method of production has until recently meant that the finished product is very unstable, and the manufacturing process itself has caused a number of accidents, although these have been quite well covered up and alternative explanations issued. So, until now, it has been quite unusable in practice and as a result our Government has not given much consideration to it. All that has now changed, according to our reports," she continued.

"We are charged with disrupting a group of anarchist conspirators. They are active in Paris and Normandy, and we understand their aim is to rekindle the conflict between our country and France. Success in achieving this would lead to an increase in the amount of arms required by both sides, into which the anarchists would be able to sell their ability to produce White Powder – the use of which would of course sway the course of any land based conflict. As Reginald said before he … before he was killed, the ability to fire a weapon without your location being given away would lead to a clear advantage on the battlefield. The side holding White Powder would be able to fire upon the opponent at will without fear of the opponent being able to accurately return that fire."

"Yes," I interjected, "I can see that would give a clear advantage. Would that we had had such material in Afghanistan – we were for ever being picked off even as we fired the guns."

They all looked at me with a look of horror and surprise. "Perhaps that could be so," Holmes replied. "But its use is, as I have said before, most ungentlemanly. You surprise me, Watson, at even thinking such a thing. Miss Wilcox, forgive my colleague. Please continue." He did however flash a brief smile at me. Doyle did not – I think he was genuinely shocked that I should have made the suggestion.

"Well," she said, "they managed to get the Chief of Police here in Portsmouth into their power, and as dear Reginald said a considerable quantity of the Powder was transported here a few nights ago." She quietly composed herself again – even the mention of his name seemed to upset her.

"Yes, on the fishing vessel from Cherbourg," Holmes replied patiently. Given the seriousness of the situation I was most impressed how he was holding himself back from hurrying her along.

"Mr Holmes, as you know, relations between Great Britain and France are only now recovering from the conflicts of the earlier years of this century. There is still much distrust, especially amongst older politicians and those in positions of power and authority. France itself is still not an altogether stable country in many ways, whilst even here Her Majesty is not held in the respect she once was. Her prolonged mourning for Prince Albert has made her seem remote from her people. The affair, if I can call it that, regarding John Brown, continues to damage her standing, even though it was all those years ago. If ever there was a time when such a dastardly plot was likely to succeed, now would be that time."

"Succeed in doing what?" I asked.

"Precipitating war between France and her allies and ourselves, of course," she replied. "And such a war would rapidly dissolve into a worldwide conflict – two empire nations, just think – the whole civilised world at war."

"Hardly civilised," objected Doyle.

"I understand now. In such a theatre," continued Holmes, "the holder of the ability to produce White Powder would in turn hold the balance of power. At any time in the conflict, as soon as one side started to get the better of the other, the Powder could be offered to the opponent. The conflict could be prolonged for years, all the time lining the pockets of those holding the ability to produce the Powder. Very clever. A lot of thought has gone into this scheme, immoral as it is."

"Indeed," Miss Wilcox continued with an air of resignation. Her hands were in her lap and she did not look up. "I don't know what to do. All it would take is one act of aggression and with either side being so distrustful of the other it would mean that all the old conflicts would be rekindled almost immediately."

"Thousands of lives would be lost in such a conflict," I exclaimed. "This is inhuman!"

"More correctly, millions of lives," she corrected. "The world has moved on since the days of Napoleon, Wellington and Nelson, as has the Empire. We have made many friends as the Empire has grown, but unfortunately in so doing we have made many enemies as well. We consider that a significant number – certainly the majority – of other countries would quickly throw their lot in with either of the main protagonists. So, you can see that the stakes cannot be higher. We – Reginald and I - have been charged with finding the plotters and stopping whatever it is they are planning as their precipitous action, so that such a terrible conflict never starts. We are part of a new organisation, linked to Scotland Yard but not fully part of it – a secret part of the Police Service if you wish to look on it as such. There are but few of us, and such as we are, we are unknown to other members. We act on behalf of Her Majesty's Government but are not fully part of it. Nor do we come under the formal law enforcement agency. We are authorised to take – how can I say this? – 'extreme measures' in order to ensure our mission is accomplished."

"Do the plotters call themselves 'the Order' of anything?" asked Doyle. "I recall that many rebellious movements give themselves grand, chivalrous titles to give glamour to their cause."

"No," she replied, curious. "We know of no name by which they describe themselves."

"Oh," he said, "it's just that Holloway's wife mentioned an 'order' on the night she was killed."

Mary Wilcox was silent for a moment, pondering these words. "No, that doesn't give me any idea as to what she could have meant."

Holmes leaned forward. "Think, Miss Wilcox," he said, now with a note of urgency finally rising in his voice, "Did you have any inkling of the likely ambition of these people?"

Again, she thought for a moment. "Not specifically, if you mean what the likely date or location was. But we did consider that, if a shipment of White Powder has been received in Portsmouth, then it is not the sort of thing one would want to move around a lot. Although the process for manufacturing it has been improved, it is by no means perfected. If the material is shaken about too much it will become unstable again, and remember it has already crossed the English Channel in autumn seas. So we thought it would probably only be used somewhere local to here, and within a short time of its arrival to avoid an accidental explosion. There is a Review of the Fleet tomorrow, hence all the ships moored out there, but Her Majesty is not to be present, so we couldn't see how that could fit with their plans."

These dealings of deep intrigue, of warfare and government, had left me needing another drink. I rose from my seat and obtained another brandy from the bottle. As I was about to return to my seat, my eyes caught an article in the day's local evening paper which was lying on the table.

"Holmes, Miss Wilcox," I said, quietly, taking it over to them and pointing out the article…

_**ROYAL VISIT TO PORTSMOUTH**_

_We rejoice with Her Majesty in the forty-fifth year of her reign, that we are authorised at last to reveal a hitherto closely guarded secret - that the guest of honour at the Review of the Fleet tomorrow, 16th October, will be the French Ambassador, M. Guillaume Cazeneuve. He will attend a private state luncheon to be held aboard the pride of the British fleet, the new ironclad HMS Dreadnought, currently moored in Portsmouth Dockyard._

_This news will be welcomed by all as a sign of the improving relations between our respective countries. The Ambassador will have pride of place at the luncheon, which will also be attended by the Prime Minister, Home Secretary, Foreign Secretary and local Members of Parliament._

_The luncheon will be held starting at 12 noon. The ceremonial extent of the engagement will commence at nine o'clock when HMS Dreadnought will slip her berth and sail from Her Majesty's Dockyard into Spit Head where a review of the assembled Fleet will take place – a total of ninety-five ships of the line are expected to attend. Joining them will be a squadron of French naval vessels, to further reinforce the new entente cordiale between us, which are even today sailing to Portsmouth in time to join the celebrations tomorrow._

_An extraordinary fireworks exhibition is to commence on the Harbour at a quarter past nine to accompany the new behemoth as she passes the walls of Old Portsmouth, the largest ironclad warship to ever grace these fair waters…_

Our eyes met. "Surely not …." breathed Miss Wilcox.

"What else could it be?" I opined. "You're looking for a precipitous act – well what about assassinating the French Ambassador whilst he is in the company of the British Government as their esteemed guest? That would certainly cause a major diplomatic incident, surely? And with French ships offshore amongst our own fleet, they could be bombarding the Town and engaging with our vessels within minutes!"

"Indeed, your florid language is most helpful!" exclaimed Holmes. "But it fits, you know, so doubtless you are correct as to the intention. Yes, it fits all the requirements. Give me a moment." He took the paper and re-read the article a number of times, during which his face grew grave. At last he looked up at us, and his face suddenly seemed careworn. He chose his words carefully.

"So we now face a predicament. We four alone know of the existence of a plot to precipitate conflict between the two powers. Let us conjecture the most probable means of its execution - to harm the French Ambassador, whilst he is the guest of the British Government, thereby creating a diplomatic incident and duly precipitating a state of war. Now clearly we cannot call for assistance from the local Police Force since they are implicated in the organisation of the plot. Likewise, if we publish our concerns to others it is probable that Miss Wilcox's organisation will be fatally compromised, and all its members will be placed in danger." He stopped to ponder what he had just said, and then addressed himself to Doyle and I. "Gentlemen, I believe that it is for such an hour as this that our country needs us together. If this evil plot is to be stopped, international relations maintained and millions of lives saved, the three of us must carry out what Reginald Franks would otherwise have done – and by our actions save our nation, and perhaps the world, from war. The stakes could not possibly be higher."

"And lady," said Mary Wilcox quietly. "As in 'lady and gentlemen'. And 'we four together'. Mr Holmes, I owe this to Reginald. I owe it to my country. I am with you in foiling this plot."

Holmes was about to argue, but seeing the look of resolution in her eye allowed himself instead the flash of a brief smile. "Very well, Miss Wilcox. You know more about this than any of us, but you need to understand the danger you will be placing yourself into."

"I do, Mr Holmes," she replied with quiet resolution in her voice. "I have known from the first moment of joining the organisation." I noted that Doyle smiled at her willingness to join us in what seemed to me to be a hopeless venture. _I know those signs_, I thought to myself.

"We will sleep here tonight, unknown to our pursuers, as best we can," continued Holmes. "If we are to have any chance of success we must strike out early tomorrow – but make no mistake, for most certainly our every move will be watched, and we will be in fear of our lives throughout our expedition."


	8. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: as usual, Holmes and Watson belong to ACD, and ACD is a real person in a fictional setting. Other characters are mine. Geography is correct but history has been 'tweaked' to fit the story.

**Chapter 7**

Some of us did not sleep well. For all the cold air outside, it was hot in my room, which we three gentlemen now shared. Miss Wilcox had the luxury of Holmes' room, which he had gallantly vacated for her to use in privacy. We heard her sobbing late into the night. But for us, the excitement was palpable in the air as we lay, open-eyed, working out the various possibilities which the daylight would bring. At least, Doyle and I lay open eyed – Holmes slept soundly.

The next morning saw us all washed and dressed before dawn. We decided to forego all but the most meagre of refreshment so that we could leave early enough to reach our goal. Even after the grief she had experienced in the past few hours I remarked to myself what a strikingly beautiful woman Miss Wilcox was. Doyle had also clearly noticed, and as she joined us the look on his face revealed the thoughts he was trying so hard to hide.

We stole quietly from the Hotel before it was light and made our way, on foot, towards the Dockyard main gate. Our progress in the dark streets was slow. I was thankful that Doyle knew the streets of Southsea and Portsmouth so well, since he led us by a most indirect route which seemed to include a good deal of doubling back. At every street corner Holmes stopped us and checked that we were not being watched or followed. Any time a cab approached we slipped into the nearest garden and hid behind a wall until it had passed. We spent a good ten minutes thus hiding at one point as the wickman did his rounds, extinguishing the gas streetlights as the first rays of dawn broke in the eastern sky. I thought afterwards that, had the police wished to apprehend us, we were giving them every occasion to do so, as we had done the previous evening as well, with our quite frankly extremely suspicious behaviour.

However, travelling indirectly through the back ways and byways, we were able to make our way without interruption, and after what seemed like longer but was in reality only an hour, we drew close to our destination. The nature of the housing had grown steadily poorer as we neared the Dockyard, with a marked increase in the number of public houses. The streets grew narrower and the houses crowded in on us, becoming dirty and untidy. There were no gardens or greenery to be seen. The smell grew gradually worse as well, and on a number of occasions I realised that raw sewage was running in the street gutter. We had reached the slums which drew together closely upon the huge expanse of the naval base.

Shortly after a quarter to eight, we at last saw our objective, the Main Gate of the Dockyard. We slipped around the south side of St George's Church - recently rebuilt and looking quite out of place amongst the surrounding residential squalor – and crossed its cramped grounds. We peered at the mighty edifice from behind the Church's neatly trimmed hedge.

What I saw disheartened me. No doubt in deference to the day's planned events, a large contingent of soldiers was on guard at the heavily gated entrance. Even as the great rush of workers started to arrive for their day's employment, it became clear to us that there was going to be no way into the Yard for us that way. We watched as a large crowd quickly formed as the workers' progress into the Dockyard was impeded by the checking of their documents. Each man's credentials were thoroughly checked at a line of tables, each garrisoned by a soldier and a policeman.

"It's too heavily guarded," breathed Doyle as we watched the soldiery checking and searching everyone who presented themselves at the gate.

"We're so near, so close," muttered Miss Wilcox. "I thought they might do something like this. They've made everyone have some sort of pass to get into the Dockyard. We've got to get to that ship. It doesn't bear thinking of if we fail. What can we do?"

"I can't see there's anything we can do," replied Doyle with a note of desperation in his voice. "We only have an hour. We will have to raise the alert after all, Miss Wilcox, and your organisation will just have to manage the consequences of us so doing. Perhaps, Mr Holmes, if we do so with the naval officers?"

Holmes was quietly watching the people entering the gate, and seemed to ignore Doyle's comments. "Indeed, they all have specially issued papers for the day," he observed, and looked to Miss Wilcox. "That would be expected on a day such as this. There is only going to be one other way to get close to the ship. I think you know of what I am thinking?"

Mary Wilcox met his gaze and nodded. "By water. We can get alongside in a boat, and find a way aboard the ship that way."

"Yes," said Holmes, with a strange note in his voice that I recognised as meaning that he was in some deep consideration. "We need to obtain the services of a launch – steam if we can, sail if we have to, although the wind is fallen quite light, but at a push these good gentlemen here could row us out. However, getting the services of either will be difficult – nigh on impossible - on a day such as this. Any seaworthy vessel will be already engaged in either ferrying officers to and from their own ships, or giving seaborne views of the day's events for fare paying passengers. Many will make their fortune this day. But we are against the clock and this matter must be brought to a satisfactory conclusion."

"We cannot fail now, Holmes!" I whispered, mindful of a group of soldiers passing us nearby. I ventured a look at the boats drawn up on the shore – every one spoken for, with excited passengers boarding to get the best view of the day's celebrations, and others milling around hoping vainly for a space. Even as I watched, a fight broke out between two groups trying to board the same small dinghy. "It's impossible! We've _got_ to get hold of something that floats!"

"But how?" Doyle asked me, clearly exasperated. "If we can't get anywhere near the _Dreadnought_ by land, and there are no boats to be had by sea, how are we to foil the plotters whilst preserving the anonymity of Miss Wilcox's organisation? Surely Mr Holmes, time has run out, we have to act. We must prioritise. It's more important to stop a war than to maintain the secrecy of an organisation."

"Actually, there is another option," said Miss Wilcox. "The best place to find aid today will be at the Camber. If nothing else there will be fishing vessels there and perhaps one can be hired – for the right price."

I glanced at my watch. "How far is it?"

"Half an hour or so's brisk walk," replied Doyle. "I know it well. We could have done it in fifteen minutes had we gone directly there from the Hotel."

"No matter now!" said Holmes, seeming to make his mind up. "Let us be off!"

Thinking it best to avoid any further suspicious activity, we walked as quickly as seemed appropriate along the Common Hard, under the new railway bridge and past the Harbour Station. The road followed the wall of the Dockyard southwards, then after some ten minutes turned somewhat to the west, passing the site of the enormous power station being built to supply the town with its new electricity supply. It was desperately slow work, since we were blocked at every step by the expectant and excited crowds making their way in the opposite direction to us, towards the spectacle at The Hard and the waterfront. On one occasion I had the feeling we were being followed, but looking behind me I could see nothing to support this perception in the crowded street.

Time was against us, and much to my horror almost a full hour had passed before we reached our destination, and were standing on the quayside at the Camber. The oldest part of Portsmouth faced us across the calm water. For all the autumn air we were hot and tense.

The basin was full of various commercial vessels, small and large. Some were indeed fishing vessels, others were obviously used for short trips along the coast from port to port, carrying various goods no doubt. The area was a hive of activity, surrounded with old, weather boarded houses and warehouses in various states of repair, and every space filled with the milling throngs trying to get a good view at the waterside. Cranes and derricks hung over the still water, some having been climbed by people eager to get a better view than they could expect from the press on the quayside. On the far side of the basin, across an old wooden bridge only wide enough for foot traffic, were a number of inns and public houses. Soldiers guarded the bridge, and others were moving amongst the crowds.

"Blocked at every turn!" exclaimed Miss Wilcox under her breath. "And we've come all this way! There's no time to try anything else now."

"I have an idea. Leave this to me," said Doyle, and led us towards the bridge. As we were challenged, he showed his card and told them that we were his cousins from London come to view the events. He introduced Miss Wilcox as his sister. The soldiers, no doubt content that we were an innocent family group in the care of such an august professional, allowed us to pass.

"Well done, Doctor," smiled Miss Wilcox after we had gone some way past the guard. "It is as well you are with us. Although please don't get me wrong – I'm still not sure whether I completely trust you all." She sighed slightly. "Unfortunately it comes with the job, I suspect. So much has happened in the past couple of days." She looked into Doyle's face. "We are always told to trust no-one. But, perhaps, I can learn to trust again."

We made our way quickly across the bridge. Doyle was left standing still for a moment and I had to cuff him gently to bring him back to his senses. "There may be time enough for that later," I said, trying not to be too melodramatic. "But not yet. We have a war to prevent."

Splitting up we started making enquiries of the vessel masters moored alongside. I was uncomfortably aware of time passing but Holmes seemed almost unnaturally controlled. My watch showed that we were fast approaching nine o'clock – only a few minutes remained before HMS _Dreadnought_ cast off.

I was just about to suggest whether we ought to forcibly take control of a vessel when Miss Wilcox called over to us. She introduced us to the Master of the _Olive_, a small steam launch recently returned from fishing in waters south of the Isle of Wight. His name was Newman, and he was an unkempt, swarthy fellow, who I thought could have done nothing better than to have immediately had a wash.

"Master Newman will be able to assist us," stated Miss Wilcox firmly, "upon payment of twenty guineas." She said the last few words forcefully, as if she were angry, and looked pleadingly at us. "I do not have twenty guineas to hand."

"Let me," I said, and we soon found ourselves boarded upon the rather haphazardly organised vessel. Its catch was evidently still not unloaded, since the vessel sat low in the water and the hatches to the hold were locked down. It towed a small dinghy behind it as we cast off. Holmes walked ahead of us to the prow of the ship and looked out across the Camber. He stretched both arms above his head, catlike, and then smiled broadly as Doyle and I joined him.

"Ah, that sea air. It is, Watson, most bracing." He stretched again and yawned loudly. "You know," he said, continuing quietly to me alone, "I may have to concede that it is good for me. I have not felt the need for 'it' this last day. It is doing me the power of good."

"I am glad to hear it, Holmes," I smiled. "You know I do not support your use of such substances, whatever effect you may try and tell me they have on you. Clean air as provided by the good Lord Himself is plentiful stimulation."

"Why haven't we moved?" asked Miss Wilcox, joining us at the prow. "He's taking long enough. Twenty guineas ought to at least encourage him to assist us." She then saw the crowd of vessels on the waters ahead of us, and like us understood – everyone was trying to leave at the same time and a logjam had developed.

I looked at my watch again. "Nine o'clock. The _Dreadnought_ will be slipping anchor now," I said, "and we need to be clear of this jam as soon as possible." Miss Wilcox went back down towards Newman, muttering something about encouraging him to greater endeavour by _adroit_ use of his superior motive power. Doyle watched her go, and the look of admiration in his eyes was now unmistakable.

"She's a fine woman, Mr Holmes, wouldn't you say?" he ventured.

Holmes considered the retreating form of Miss Wilcox. "I think the lady has certain hidden depths, yes," replied my friend, flashing a smile in my direction. "You sound like Watson sometimes. It does not stretch my intellect to surmise you are referring to affairs of the heart, perchance?"

"She seems so accomplished, so brave," Doyle continued. "Her unquestioning devotion to Franks is remarkable. Her commitment to finishing what he started is amazing. They must have made a formidable partnership. Look at how she has kept faith with their mission. I wonder if she will be able to ever give such devotion to another…?"

"At last!" I exclaimed, and not before time, I thought. "We're moving."

True enough, the jam was starting to clear itself. There was still much jostling and bumping of fenders, and at least one vessel's dinghy was crushed and sunk. We had to hold tight to the handrail as the _Olive_ herself was jolted heavily a couple of times. To accompany all this activity there was considerable use of colourful language from one ship's master to another, in which sport Newman seemed to excel, reacting with blazing anger every time the _Olive_ was in collision with another vessel.

It was slow to begin with, but we gradually made progress. Within a few minutes there seemed to be a sudden rush as the various vessels found themselves released from the confines of the Camber and spread out, almost like corks being popped from a bottle, into the open waters of the lower Harbour. There we joined an armada of other small boats and craft already plying the congested waters.

"There!" shouted Miss Wilcox from her position alongside Newman on the small bridge of the _Olive_. "The _Dreadnought_!"

True enough, having cast off from her jetty within the Dockyard, the vast bulk of Her Majesty's Navy's most potent battleship was even now slowly making her way down water towards us to join the ships of the Review. The smaller boats were scattering from her regal progress like flies around an elephant, creating a pathway through the massed vessels through which she made her stately way. The size of the ship was astounding – I am not sure whether I had ever seen such a vessel of that bulk before that day. The sound of her horn repeatedly thundered across the water as we started to approach her.

"Now what do we do?" Doyle asked. He too seemed awed by the size of the vessel. "I suppose we have to try to get alongside, and then to make our way on board! But how on earth do you even start to get aboard a vessel such as that, on a day like today, from a boat like this? And then prevent the deed without being arrested on the spot? It's impossible! We've failed at the last!" These last words he spoke with an air of defeat.

"Oh, I don't think we have failed. I think the plan has only ever been to get alongside," replied Holmes calmly. "But not, I fear, for the reason you may have been expecting."

He nodded towards the cabin of the _Olive_, and as I turned my gaze from the _Dreadnought_ to where he was indicating I saw that both Newman and Miss Wilcox were aiming revolvers at the three of us.


	9. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: as usual, Holmes and Watson are ACD's invention. ACD himself is a real person in a fictional setting. Geography is pretty accurate but history, for the purpose of the story, is not.

**Chapter 8**

"What the …?!" I exclaimed. "Stop this madness! We are on your side! You know you can trust us!"

"That's enough, gentlemen, please," ordered Miss Wilcox. She motioned to us to stand still, for both Doyle and I had started towards them. "Sorry; I trust no-one, and I have need to work quickly."

"But …. what is going on? Why are you doing this? We're trying to help," asked Doyle.

"May I perhaps explain to my colleagues?" asked Holmes of her, a model of calmness.

"Why not?" replied Miss Wilcox. "It will be the last thing you do."

"There never was a conspiracy in France."

She thought for a moment, as if unsure as to whether to admit what was starting to become clear to us. Then - "Correct."

Holmes addressed us. "All along, the conspiracy has been here in Britain, although admittedly organised by a group of anarchists, and indeed using White Powder, which they have been able to successfully produce in commercial quantities. And the aim of the conspirators has indeed been to create a state of war between Britain and France, and their respective allies, and into that state introduce the marketing of White Powder to the highest bidder, prolonging it for as long as possible. In this way they hope to both line their own pockets and to cripple the economies of the warring nations. So not quite the normal behaviour one might expect of anarchists, but inventive nonetheless. And Miss Wilcox here is, I regret, one of their number."

"_What_?" Doyle interjected. He was obviously struggling with the turn of events – that the recent object of his admiration had turned out to be less than trustworthy.

"You are very astute Mr Holmes," replied Miss Wilcox. "The natural choice seemed to be Britain and France as being the nations with the oldest and greatest distrust between them."

Doyle's face was a picture. "Mr Holmes, are you saying that _SHE_ is one of the conspirators? But what about Franks? How did she keep her identity from him and the other members of his organisation so successfully?"

Miss Wilcox laughed – a cold cruel laugh. "I'm sure even the great Mr Holmes would be surprised…"

"On the contrary," replied Holmes. "Doctor Doyle, you need to take a step back as it were – to clear the lumber from your mind, as I so often remind Watson to do, and to ignore what has been told you. Concentrate on what you _know_." He looked calmly into Miss Wilcox's eyes. "Franks was as much a conspirator as you are, Miss Wilcox. As, indeed, were Holloway and his wife. The four of you have a base in London, and when the time was right you all moved here to put your scheme into practice."

Miss Wilcox looked wide eyed at Holmes, with a fleeting trace of respect. "Oh, _very_ well done, Mr Holmes. Yes, our factory for making White Powder is indeed in Fenchurch Street, and it is to there that I and Newman – who is of course the fifth and final member of our conspiracy – will return to bring our plans to fruition. Yes, well done, Mr Holmes. How did you know?"

"I sent telegrams to Gregson, and Percival Agar at the Port of London, yesterday after our interview with Mr Steel at the bank," he replied. "As soon as I saw Franks' name on the staff board I knew that all was not as it seemed on the surface, since I knew he had a connection with the Force. All this talk of secret organisations was too convenient, and clearly aimed at stopping our checking the basic facts. To your undoing, Miss Wilcox; that is one error into which I resolutely refuse to fall. The telegrams which were waiting for me at the Hotel yesterday evening told me all I needed to know – that Franks was a most unreliable character, and had been quietly discharged from the Metropolitan Force after an act of insubordination with Lestrade. Gregson was quite pleased to tell me all the sordid detail, as you can imagine – he and Lestrade have something of an air of competition between them. Agar's telegram on the other hand revealed, in answer to my question, that a young woman named Mary Franks had purchased a steam launch five weeks ago at the Royal Dock." He sighed. "Franks was obviously the first name that came into your head. You really must think of better pseudonyms, my dear lady, if you are to succeed in your chosen career. Do not choose the name of your lover, nor presuppose your marital state."

I could tell that Doyle was still struggling to comprehend the sudden change in circumstances. "So, when Mrs Holloway spoke of 'the order' ….."

"She was no doubt referring to the order, from me, to put into effect the final stages of our plan," spat Miss Wilcox defiantly. "I can see that you know a great deal, Mr Holmes. We completed the preparation of the White Powder and then made our way to Portsmouth a month ago. Newman here loaded the _Olive_ on the 11th and sailed her round to the Camber, arriving in the early morning of the 13th. Once I had been telegraphed about his safe arrival I advised the others to start bringing matters to a close. Holloway resigned his job at the bank, as did Franks yesterday – that was why he was so late returning." She paused for a moment and smiled coldly. "I can just imagine the scene at the bank, old Steel wondering what had hit him, two of his best men resigning within days of each other. You see, amazing as it will appear to you gentlemen – even the doe-eyed Doctor Doyle - I am the leader of this 'conspiracy' as you call it – even old Newman here does as I say, don't you?" She glared acidly at him. "But the authorities have somehow got wind of the scheme – we are being followed, and picked off one by one."

We were now approaching the _Dreadnought_, and I was wondering what Holmes was planning. Vessels of all shapes and sizes continued to jostle around us. It seemed to me that our outlook was hopeless, as hopeless as any situation I had ever been in, and yet he calmly maintained his conversation with Miss Wilcox.

"Yes, you were being trailed and despatched by the real – how shall we describe them – 'secret service'," replied Holmes. He must have seen the look on my face, and Doyle looked lost as well. "Come gentlemen; understand the game she has been playing. Put yourself in her shoes. Her co-conspirators are being tracked down and incapacitated by the forces of Law and Order, one by one. The numbers in her conspiratorial circle are dwindling, but certain tasks need to be completed. If nothing else, she knows that there will be no way into the Dockyard, and in truth of course that was never her intention. Rather, her whole intent was to get herself onto the _Olive_ and to do that she needed a means of getting past the guards – this being impossible once she was unable to play the loving married couple with Franks. So she gets assistance from some unsuspecting and well-meaning third parties, and tries to divert us from the truth with a tale of Government secrecy and derring-do – pretending that she and her companion are members of those very forces which have in truth been sent to apprehend them. The need for secrecy means she supposes we will not go to the authorities, since we will think they are implicated in the conspiracy." He turned to her. "It is very well done, Miss Wilcox. It would have succeeded had I not been amongst those you tried to fool."

She smiled coldly. "Thank you Mr Holmes. I will take that as a compliment. But I have succeeded anyway."

"But why did Mrs Holloway come to my door that fateful night?" asked Doyle angrily.

"I can answer that," replied Holmes. "In her pain and distress she was trying to warn you, wasn't she, Miss Wilcox? But in the half light and almost incapacitated in her pain and distress, she mistook number ten for number sixteen – the number plate alongside your door, Miss Wilcox, is rather chipped and the six does look somewhat like a zero…"

"Emily was willing to sacrifice herself to warn me," she retorted. "We had been successful in secreting ourselves thus far, but those Government agents caught up with them at the last! No doubt Francis put up such resistance that by the time they subdued him Emily had made away, although wounded, to confirm to us that my orders had been carried out. I salute her commitment to the cause. But, enough! I think it's time to complete the plan, don't you, Newman?" He nodded, walked forward and clamped us to the metal handrail running at waist height along the length of the _Olive_ using pairs of handcuffs – police issue, I noted.

"Is this true? What is your plan, you evil, heartless woman?" Doyle was getting quite worked up. Even in our extreme situation I couldn't help a wry smile. Unrequited love, indeed!

"To sink the _Dreadnought_," she said, levelly, as though discussing cookery. "To sink this ship in the middle of the main entrance to Portsmouth Harbour. To use the weakness of the Admiralty against itself. 'Let's make a real statement,' I dare say they thought, 'and let us build something as big as we can, as a testament to our power'. Except of course it's so big that when it sinks it will block the Harbour entrance and render the Dockyard inoperable. Word will be put around that it's a French plot and – lo and behold – the world is at war, with half the Royal Navy trapped in port. That should adjust the balance of power somewhat."

"Is there no depth to which you will not sink, woman?" I shouted.

Newman muttered something in Miss Wilcox's ear. "It's you that's going to do the sinking, gentlemen," she replied with a smile. "This vessel holds our entire stock of White Powder – that's why she's so low in the water. You're standing on my bomb." She looked up at the _Dreadnought_, now only perhaps fifty yards away from us, and already looming over us so that we were almost in half-light, such was the deep shadow she cast over all around her. "Newman and I will tie up alongside _Dreadnought_ in a few moments, then bid you goodbye – well, actually, it will be rather earlier than that – the fireworks start in a few moments, and once they do, no-one will notice us shoot you. The White Powder will blow a hole in the side of the ship large enough to kill most on board, and drown those who don't die in the explosion. We will be away in the dinghy by the time the _Dreadnought_ is sent to the bottom of the Harbour. We go back to London, step up production, sit back and enjoy our riches."

I looked to Holmes. He was still quite clam, fixing her with a steely glare. Even in our desperate situation I felt hope. But what hope could there be, so far from our home territory, alone and bound? His next words however took me by surprise.

"You don't have to do this. You have a choice."

"Oh, really?" she spat her words at him, the vitriol in her voice unmistakable. "All my life I've watched the Empire being built on the backs of oppressed people. Look at them, even now…" She waved towards the crowds lining the shore, cheering at the looming battleship, and on the hundreds of vessels crowding around us. "So excited – but about what? If they knew… They don't know on what their Empire stands. They don't care. Enough is enough. We have to make a stand."

"But you have a choice. You always have a choice. You don't have to go through with it. Even now it's not too late. Think of the lives you will save."

For a moment it was almost as though time stood still, her eyes locked with his. Boats continued to jostle about us, getting closer again as the mighty battleship moved southwards into the narrow entrance of the Harbour. We were only perhaps ten yards from the _Dreadnought_. Then came her answer – cold and inhuman, as though from a machine. "No, Mr Holmes, there is too much at stake." She nodded to Newman, who passed her his revolver, produced and struck a match, and lit a cordite fuse tied to the ship's hatch. Sparks flew from it as it started to burn down quickly. Newman took back his gun. "This five minute fuse will see us clear," she said. "And now I think it is time to die, Mr Holmes, gentlemen."

"Indeed it is," he replied, with a note of sadness that filled me with fear.

The boats were crowding around us again as an enormous blast on the _Dreadnought_'s horn heralded the start of the firework exhibition. We jumped as loud cracks and whistles echoed over the still autumn water. The flotilla of small craft responded with their own horns, bells and whistles. I looked down the barrel of the gun in Newman's hand, and, I have to admit, said my prayers. I looked to Holmes, who turned away from Miss Wilcox and Newman, and ran his free hand through his hair.

Newman and Miss Wilcox fell to the deck of the ship, incapacitated by the bullets that hit them from the boat alongside. In shock I looked across, straight into the eyes of Lestrade, and at last understood. Holmes had given the final signal to convey that his attempt to reason with Miss Wilcox had failed, and the police agents in the launch now mooring up against the _Olive_ had despatched their prey with clinical efficiency.

"Good morning, Lestrade!" Holmes shouted to our rescuer. "I think you will find there is a burning fuse to be extinguished in double quick time, please! And then if you would be so kind as to deal with these handcuffs, we would be most grateful."

Within moments the fuse had been made safe and we had been freed. Doyle and I checked the bodies – Newman was dead, and Miss Wilcox seemed to be not long for this world.

And then, in a most unBritish display of relief and emotion, I hugged Doyle and Holmes. Holmes for his part tried to resist, but as the firework exhibition continued and the _Dreadnought_ continued on her way, I was only intent on celebrating the fact that we had been saved from certain death by the brilliance of Mr Sherlock Holmes.


	10. Epilogue

Disclaimer: Holmes and Watson are ACD's invention. ACD is a real person in a fictional setting. Other characters are mine. Geography is accurate but history only partly so – of course.

Trivia – the Hotel in which Holmes and Watson stay in this story is the same Hotel where the Mr Bean episode 'The Man in Room 426' was filmed. Sorry if you're not into Mr Bean….

**Epilogue**

16th October 1882

The early afternoon found us back at Arthur's house, number ten Hampshire Terrace. Brandy and cigars were to hand, Mrs Evans had provided us with a remarkable luncheon, the autumn sun was shining and all was well with the world.

"Absolutely brilliant, Mr Holmes," enthused Doyle, and Holmes rose from his chair and took a bow, before sitting again with a broad smile. "But I am quite exhausted with all this adventure." He turned to me. "Is this how it always is with the two of you, Watson?"

I laughed. "Sometimes it can be worse than this, Doyle! But I must admit, this time round I really thought we had reached the end. Were it not for the fact that Holmes here had everything under control, evidently."

"Well, I think Mr Holmes should get an award!" Doyle continued.

I thought these matters of approbation were starting to get out of hand. "So," I said, changing the subject, "it was all a ruse, then."

"Indeed," replied Holmes. "You really must learn not to accept everything at face value. As soon as I interviewed you, Doctor Doyle, at Waterloo Bridge Station it was clear that the 'real' police were involved. I made that quite clear in my subsequent outline of the case as I saw it then. Now the fact is that although individuals within a force may be corrupted, the overall system works in checks and balances, and will reveal any such compromise quickly. As the case developed, there could clearly be no way that the Chief of Police here in Portsmouth would have been able to assemble a secret death squad – if you wish to call it such – to hunt down government agents. Of course, until we had evidence to the contrary I was not willing to completely ignore the possibility of such a hypothesis, but as soon as we started to have names, the whole thing slid into place like a well oiled piece of machinery. I shared with you the rest of the cogent points during our closing discussion with Miss Wilcox during our most exhilarating excursion this morning."

"Well, I still think you should get official recognition for your work," Doyle said.

"My work is its own reward," Holmes replied, although some colour was showing in his cheeks. "It is merely the organisation of clear facts, and most importantly keeping one's mind clear of anything that does not contribute to the solution. Try only those conjectures which fit the facts to hand, and discard them once it is clear they do not fit. By such means we quickly move to a situation whereby the only story that fits is the truth – however unlikely or unsettling. All that was necessary at the end – last night in fact, once I had read the telegrams waiting for me – was to send and advise Lestrade to attend us this morning and to watch for my signals. I had hoped of course that Miss Wilcox would have seen sense and abandoned her plans, in which case he would have been able to make the arrest without bloodshed. The new agents are somewhat trigger-happy, gentlemen – as you saw in action."

"Why Lestrade?" I asked, making the most of my friend's present openness to providing explanations.

"Simply that Franks had worked with him. Had Franks lived I had hoped that Lestrade would have some influence over him still. More so, perhaps, than I. Unfortunately subsequent events rather overtook that possibility of course."

"But the guns, Holmes," I continued. "Silent guns? How was that possible?"

"As my brother reminds me with regularity bordering on the annoying, Watson, there is much that goes on in the corridors of power which would surprise us all. Long before new mechanisms become openly available I think you will find that our Government is able to procure early prototypes, especially with respect to weapons. Sometimes they even commission their continued development. In such a way there has, no doubt, been manufactured a muffler or silencer attachment which works to deaden the sound of the shot. I have spent a little time researching such a development, as one does, so I am aware of the theory, and it is perfectly achievable. You will not see them commercially or openly available for another decade at least. But they exist, as we have seen."

"You make it sound so straightforward, Mr Holmes," replied Doyle. "But I still don't quite understand why they involved me."

"It was not in their original plan to do so," responded Holmes. "However, as soon as Emily Holloway crawled to your door by mistake, then your involvement was required. It was inevitable. Remember that since the police special agents used these new silent weapons, you were the only witness to what had happened. Your engagement of my services was of course unexpected to them – had you chosen not to do so, then I have, I am afraid, absolutely no doubt that Miss Wilcox would have captivated your heart into unknowingly bringing the plot to a successful conclusion."

"And doubtless rewarded my devotion to her by despatching me at the earliest opportunity thereafter."

"Yes," smiled Holmes. "I think that you would have been killed on the _Olive_ in any event. All they needed you for was to help them to get close enough to the _Dreadnought_ to detonate the explosive. Had Franks not been killed last evening they may even have despatched you earlier, just to use your house as an alternative base for their activities."

"I thought highly of that woman," said Doyle, regretfully. "She had me fooled."

"A little too obviously! Let that be a lesson, Doyle!" I laughed. "Take stock of what the expert says! Not that he of course as ever had his heart warmed by such feelings, I am sure."

"On the contrary, Watson!" exclaimed Holmes. "But that is not for discussion here." He stood up. "Doctor Doyle, I thank you for a most diverting few days. But Watson and I must be returning to the metropolis. I can feel it calling to me."

"And I," I continued, "have a journal to write up."

Holmes fixed me with an acid stare. "Ah, yes, your journals," he said quietly, "We never did quite finish our discussion did we?"

"Just think of what a tale could be told about our exploits here!" I exclaimed. "People would queue up to read about it."

Doyle was listening with interest. "What journals and tales are these, Watson?"

I quickly explained that I was keeping records of Holmes' exploits and methods, so that in time they could be published so that others could learn their trade from the master.

"The over-riding problem which my friend has not considered," said Holmes, "is that people may not be the least interested in our adventures, such as they are."

"It is easily resolved," I replied. "I would have to publish the accounts written in the same tone as you reveal the solutions of your cases, Holmes. I always seem to end up with a sense of amazement as you explain your intricate labyrinthine thought processes, so I would have no difficulty in conveying that same sense of wonder to my readers! Come, man, such accounts would be a great success. I would only need to wait a seemly time between the events and publication if the events of the case required."

"You _really_ think anyone would be interested?" he asked.

"If I could get a series of accounts together, then yes I believe so," I replied. But then I halted. "But the practical problem is that I have absolutely no idea how to go about getting them published."

Doyle was enthusiastic. "Mr Holmes, I think this is a marvellous idea of Watson's. Undoubtedly people would queue up to read them. And I think I can help. I have experience of publishing – I have had some little success with my fictions at '_Chambers's Journal'_, Watson. So if you send some of your manuscripts to me, I will do the hard work of submitting them to publishing houses until one of them accepts them. It's the least I could do as a way of thanking you for taking me seriously at the outset of this little 'adventure' as Mr Holmes calls it. I'll do all the hard work, all the running around. I will submit them as though they were works of fiction, and even under my own name if you so wish. Anyway, whatever we agree, everyone gains. Your stories are published, Watson; the world learns of the great prowess of the amazing Mr Sherlock Holmes; and you - and I if you let me join you in this - get a bit of meagre income to supplement the day job." He smiled appealingly at Holmes. "Although of course if the great Mr Holmes objects…."

Holmes took a deep breath, smiled at us both, and then grabbed up his bag. "I give up!" he said. "Come, Watson, to the Metropolis! And, perhaps, fame…."

**THE END**


End file.
